“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?”
