Rainbow Body

Chapter 2

Chapter 2I was raised in the Roman Catholic church. Sundays meant being at Mass beside my mother, who would kneel and work her rosary beads long after the final prayer was said. I never understood the whole church thing, why hundreds of people would gather and mindlessly chant prayers as the man in the white robe and funny hat led them. I did it for years as a kid—reciting the big, memorized, foreign words along with the singular monotone of the congregation. There were words like redemption and salvation and penance, and it was the kind of thing one did without necessarily understanding what they were saying.

There were a few things to be sure of: we were all born sinners and spent our lives atoning; there were rules to be followed (some easy, some complex); those who were dealt a shitty hand in this life were promised paradise in the next. The latter threw me for a loop because it was a promise no one had to keep; after all, it’s not like anyone comes back from the afterlife with souvenirs or proof. The dead stay dead, and the living cling to the hope that there’s someplace else—someplace better—when life is over.

Another thing that really got me was the collection basket that would go around as the members of the parish gladly opened their wallets to buy their salvation. And it was shameful if you passed it up—those that were brave enough to do that sat contemplating their navels for the rest of the service.

There was a time when I bought into it all. I’d sit beside my mother, imitating her, praying. Or I’d go light a candle, which of course cost money, and sit in front of the shrine with hollow eyes, rocking back and forth on my knees. If I did something particularly bad that week I was made to pray longer, my mother monitoring my posture to make sure I didn’t kneel with my ass against the pew behind me. We were taught the value of human suffering in Sunday school; the padded knee rests were humane enough. Resting one’s ass on the pew was asking too much. I’d memorized the commandments and worried so much about whether or not my daily actions were sinful that I’m surprised it didn’t give my eight-year-old stomach an ulcer.

And then I grew up.

It’s not that I’m an atheist or that I don’t have a relationship with a higher power, it’s that religion always been a more personal experience for me. Spirituality is in the perfection of the intricacies that make up the world, the emotion in a song, the resonance patterns that form from the ringing of a bell, the private thanks I give my creator for another day and another chance at life. The God I believe in doesn’t damn me to the fiery depths of hell for not repenting my sins to an ordained priest every so often. (By that logic, I wonder idly what special persecution must be in store for the priests that molest young boys.)

I figure as long as I live my life with moral decency, don’t kill anyone, and maintain my generosity of spirit, I’m good with my God. And anyway, it turns out that my daily life includes one very big sin, a stigma that affects the Catholic church especially because of those beloved priests who go rogue, touch little boys, and give all queers a bad name. The church doesn’t do very well with gays. So I’ve been studying Buddhism, the tenets of which work well with my yoga practice. I like the Buddhist way of life, but I often struggle with shutting my brain off long enough to enjoy the benefits of meditation.

I’m sitting in my tiny bedroom, cross-legged on my bed, facing the wall. I slip the purple prayer beads through my hand rhythmically as I count, eyes closed, and breathe, try to clear my head. I’m trying to think of nothing. Trying to clear my head. Trying to fill my shrunken attention span with the prayer beads. But my overachiever brain is engaging in mental gymnastics, going at the pace of a mile a minute. Thinking of nothing would be a minor miracle.

The door to my apartment opens and slams.

“I’m home!” Nicole calls at my closed door.

I give up, open my eyes, toss the beads away in frustration. I stand and stretch, the whine of inertia dispersing through my muscles. Both feet are asleep. Great.

There’s a principle in Tibetan Buddhism called the Rainbow Body. It dictates that when the highest form of enlightenment is reached, the physical body is no longer needed and disappears into a body of light. Personally, I’m not buying it, but there are extremists who set themselves on fire for it. Still, there are times when I’d like to just disappear.

Nicole is in the kitchen, where every available flat surface is covered with grocery bags. It’s her week to buy.

“Are we feeding a small army?” I ask.

She ignores the question and starts unpacking, pulling from a random bag a frozen steak that’s begun to thaw. Blood collects inside the plastic wrapping.

“Gross,” I comment, wincing.

“Quiet,” she says. “I bought you tofu and bean sprouts.”

“You’re the best,” I reply, pulling cereal boxes from another bag.

Nicole and I have been best friends since elementary school. We’ve grown up together, gone through college and crises together. I reflect for a moment on our lives twenty years ago, on the first day of kindergarten, when we met. Five-year-old me sat quietly during classroom playtime, petrified, as my classmates bustled around me, getting to know each other and relishing the beloved reprieve from learning. I might as well have been invisible until Nicole approached me.

“Play blocks with me,” she said.

And the rest was history. I spent much of our early years as Nicole’s sidekick: she was outgoing, and it was easier to make friends alongside her. In high school, Nicole was always looking for an invite to the exclusive parties, and when she got one, she wanted to bring me along. I never really cared about such things, but I enjoyed my time with my friend. We studied together often; Nicole still credits me with helping her get through our science classes in high school. It wasn’t until college that I found like-minded people who cared about more than parties, but Nicole remained a constant in my life. We were different, sure, but it worked—we might as well have been born sisters.

“Has Layla called yet?”

“Nope. But I’m really not holding my breath.”

“Oh, come on, Maya.”

“What?”

“You’ve been in love with that girl since freshman year. Shouldn’t you be a little more excited?”

“I mean, yeah, it finally happened, but she probably made out with three different girls after we left.”

“Oh, come on. I know she’s hot—or at least, lesbian hot, but—”

“Lesbian hot?” I cut in, raising an eyebrow.

“You know what I mean,” she sighs, pushing a strand of hair impatiently out of her face.

“Do I?”

Nicole rolls her eyes.

“As I was saying,” she retorts, ignoring me. “I bet you underneath all that butch swagger she’s just looking for a nice girl.”

I shrug.

“Maybe.”

“So, why couldn’t that girl be you?”

I exhale. Of course, there’s a chance that Nicole could be right. But letting myself hope might mean getting my heart broken, and I’d rather be pleasantly surprised.

“So, what are we doing tonight?” I ask, desperate to change the subject.

“We aren’t doing anything,” Nicole chortles, waggling her eyebrows at me. “I have a date.”

Men love Nicole, and she loves them right back. I’m used to the steady stream of painfully good-looking guys in her life and our apartment; they rarely stick around more than a few weeks, and rarely leave by their own choice as Nicole inevitably gets bored of them easily and sends them on their way.

“What’s this guy’s name?”

“Brett,” she says. “I met him on Tinder. Tonight’s our first date—he’s so hot, and he’s an executive on Wall Street. We’re going to this fancy place in Midtown tonight—I am going to need to get dressed up.”

Nicole swipes through her phone and turns the screen toward me to reveal a would-be Calvin Klein model—dark blond hair slicked back perfectly, a hint of five-o-clock shadow blessing his perfectly chiseled jawline as he stares broodingly off into the distance. His eyes are either green or blue—the filter used on the photo makes it impossible to tell. He’s in what must be an expensive suit, visible only from the chest up—tie discarded, first few buttons opened to reveal just enough of his chiseled and hair-free pecs.

“Well, he’s definitely your type,” I say.

Nicole giggles. “Hell yeah, he is.”

* * * *

I pull out my yoga mat in the living room and turn on some music. Nicole left for her date in a best-dressed hurricane, tossing a gleeful “Don’t wait up!” over her shoulder, taking with her all of the apartment’s noise and chaos. In the wake of the quiet, I find myself restless and thinking too much about Layla.

I shift easily through my warm up poses: sun salutation, vinyasa, warrior series. Slowly but surely, my muscles become pliable and my mind follows suit. I breathe deeply through my nose, filling every pocket of my lung capacity. I’m just settling into warrior two when my cell phone sounds. KATE. I pick up.

“Hi, Maya!” she chirps into the phone.

“Hey, Kate,” I reply, sitting on the mat in lotus pose.

“What are you doing tonight?” she asks.

“I’m just hanging out at home. You?”

“Ray’s out tonight. I was wondering if you wanted to do something.”

I glance at the clock. It’s 8:30.

“Sure,” I reply. “Wanna come over?”