“What is that stuff?” she asked, still choking from the fumes, as Karma smiled. And the purity of her face reminded Paris of Joan of Arc as she was engulfed by the final flames.

“It's a potion I mix myself. It works every time.”

“On what?” It was going to wreak havoc with the carpet and the curtains. The pungent, oily smell seemed to permeate the entire room.

“This is great for your lungs. See how you're starting to clear everything out.” Paris was beginning to fear she might throw up. It was starting to clear the instant soup she'd eaten before Karma arrived to massage her. And before she could ask the woman to put the votive out and get rid of her magic potion, Karma put a different bottle over the flame, and within seconds there was a smell so powerful in the room that tears had filled Paris's eyes. It was a smell somewhere between rat poison, arsenic, and cloves, and was so overwhelming Paris could hardly breathe.

“What does this one do?” It was becoming something of a challenge just to survive in the room while Karma continued the massage. Paris was still lying on her stomach, and the small of her back was now on fire from the hot, oily rocks. It was agony, and yet in a funny way, both the heat and the weight of them felt good. She was beginning to understand the philosophy that led some sects to sleep on beds of nails, or swallow flames. It turned the mind away from its many ills and made you concentrate on all the places in your body that were either burning, in agony, or simply hurt. And when Karma told her to turn over again, and Paris did, without warning she spilled a cup of salt onto her abdomen, covered her belly button, and dropped a hot ball of incense on top of it, while Paris watched in fascination.

“What is that going to do?”

“Suck all the poisons out, and bring you inner peace.” The incense was an improvement over the burning oils at least, but the next one Karma put on over the flame was like instant spring, and the flower scent was so powerful that Paris sneezed violently, and it sent the incense on her stomach flying across the room. “They're hating this,” Karma smiled, referring to Paris's demons again. But Paris couldn't stop sneezing for the next five minutes, and finally conceded defeat. The oils had done her in.

“So am I, I think I'm allergic to that stuff,” Paris said, and Karma looked as though she had been slapped.

“You can't be allergic to aromatherapy,” she pronounced with absolute certainty. But by then, Paris had had enough. The massage, what there had been of it, had been nice, but the oils and burning rocks and pungent smells had been too much. And it was after eleven o'clock.

“I think I am allergic to it,” Paris said firmly, “and it's getting late. I feel guilty keeping you out at this hour.” As she said it, she sat up and swung her legs off the table, and reached for her robe.

“You can't get up yet,” Karma said insistently. “I have to settle your chakras down before I leave. Lie down. If you don't, it's like leaving all the faucets open, and you'll lose all your energy as soon as you stand up.” A daunting thought, so with a look of suspicion, and in spite of her better judgment, Paris lay down again. And Karma ran her hands above her, chanting something unintelligible with her own eyes closed. It only took five minutes, mercifully, and then she was done. But the smell in the room was so overpowering that Paris couldn't imagine how she would ever be able to sleep there again.

“Thank you so much,” she said as she hopped off the table, and Karma warned her not to bathe or shower until the morning. It would be too great a shock, both for her demons and for her. But Paris knew there was no way she would lie in her bed all night, covered in oil.

It took Karma another half-hour to wrap up, she charged one hundred dollars, which was reasonable at least, and by midnight she was gone. Paris walked back into her bedroom after letting her out, and all she could do was laugh. Some of it had been relaxing, but most of it had been ridiculously absurd. And she had nodded dutifully when Karma warned her that she'd have to have a high colonic and clean her system out before she came back again, or the therapy would never work.

Paris was still smiling to herself as she walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and dropped her robe, and then she saw her back in the mirror. There were round symmetrical bruises all over it, from the cupping. It was terrifying looking, and given the deep purplish-red colors of the marks, it was easy to guess that the result of the “cupping” would be deep blue by the next day. It was terrifying to see, and it looked every bit as painful as it had been while the woman did it. Whatever it had done to her demons, it had made a mess of Paris's back. And when she checked again in the morning, her worst fears were confirmed. She looked as though she had been severely abused during the night, and there were two red burn marks on her shoulders from the hot rocks. And the room it had all happened in smelled like someone had died. But if nothing else, it had made Paris laugh. That was something at least. And what did it matter anyway? There was no one to see her back. When Meg called to inquire about it, all Paris could do was laugh.

“How was it, Mom?”

“It was certainly interesting. Sort of a modern form of neomasochism. And by the way, I have demons in my bowels.”

“Yeah, I know, so does Peace. He got them from his father.”

“I hope you don't,” Paris said, sounding concerned. “She said I got mine from my mother.”

“Peace will be really impressed you did that, Mom,” Meg said, grinning at the thought of it. Her mother had been a good sport if nothing else.

“You'd be even more impressed if you could see the bruises on my back.”

“They'll be gone in a few days, Mom. Maybe you should try Rolfing next time,” Meg said, laughing at her.

“Never mind. My demons and I are just fine the way we are.”

The day after the Christmas party she'd agreed to go to at the Morrisons', Paris strolled into Anne's office, looking pleased.

“Did you have fun?” Anne asked her hopefully. It was the first time she'd been to a party in seven months. The last one she'd attended was her own, the night Peter told her he wanted a divorce.

“No, I hated it.” She looked smugly at her psychiatrist, as though she had proved her point. She had done everything Anne had told her to do, from massage to party, and detested every minute of it.

“How long did you stay?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“That doesn't count. You have to stay at least an hour.”

“Seven people told me how sorry they were that my husband left me. The husbands of two of my friends asked me if I would meet them on the sly for a drink sometime. And five people told me they were invited to Peter's wedding. I am not going out again. I felt like a pathetic fool.”

“Yes, you are going out again. And you're not a pathetic fool. You're a woman whose husband walked out on her. That's tough, Paris, but it happens. You'll survive it.”

“I'm not going out,” Paris said, with a look of iron determination. “I'm never going out again. And I had a massage. The woman was a nutcase, and I had bruises for days. I have demons in my bowels. And I am never going to another party. Ever,” she said, looking determined and very stubborn.

“Then you'll have to meet some people who don't know about Peter. That's a possibility too. But you can't stay home for the rest of your life like Greta Garbo. If nothing else, you'll worry your children, and you'll be bored out of your mind. You can't just sit at home. You need more in your life than that.”

“I'll go out after Peter gets married,” Paris said vaguely.

“What difference will that make?” Anne asked, looking startled.

“At least people won't be talking about the wedding. One of them was even stupid enough to ask if I was invited.”

“And what did you say?”

“That I could hardly wait, and I was going to New York to buy a new dress for the occasion. What was I supposed to say? No, I'm planning to commit suicide that night.”

“Are you?” Anne shot right back at her.

“No,” Paris said with a sigh. “Even if I wanted to, I wouldn't do that to my kids.”

“But do you want to?”

“No,” she said sadly. “I'd like to die, but I don't want to do it myself. Besides, I don't have the guts.”

“Well, if you ever reconsider that, and think about it, I want you to call me immediately,” Anne said sternly.

“I will,” Paris promised, and meant it. She was miserable, but not miserable enough to kill herself. She didn't want to give Rachel the satisfaction.

“What are you doing on New Year's Eve?”

“Crying probably.”

“Is there anyone you'd like to see?”

“I guess everyone I know is going to Peter's wedding. That's pretty depressing. I'll be okay. I'll just go to sleep.” They both knew it was going to be a tough night. There was no other way it could be.

Christmas was quiet that year. Wim and Meg spent Christmas Eve with her, and Christmas Day with their father and Rachel. Paris had gone out and gotten a tree, and decorated it before they got home from California. And five days before Christmas, her final divorce decree arrived, and she just sat and stared at it for a long time, and then put it away in a locked drawer. It was like reading a death certificate. She had never thought in her entire life that she would see her name on one of those. She didn't even tell the children it had come. She couldn't bring herself to say the words. It was over. Seven months after he had walked out on her, almost to the day. And now he was marrying Rachel. Paris had a sense of unreality about it all. Her life had become surreal.