Manifestation

“Rest in shavasana, palms up, eyes closed, and clear your mind.”

Donna tried to empty her head as she lay in corpse pose. Her mind immediately swirled with painful memories. Fortunately, there were only five minutes left in the first class of “Eleven Days to Manifesting Your New Life.”

“Relax your face,” the instructor said softly, passing Donna’s mat.

Donna forced a small frown away. A fist clenched with the effort. She forced her hand to relax as she thought, Force to relax? Isn’t that an oxymoron? Houston, we have a problem. Please advise.

Five minutes of meditation followed. Donna did as instructed—well, she tried. She tried to visualize, in detail, what she wanted as if it had already happened. What would it look like? How would it feel?

Donna supposed most people were imagining promotions, or weight loss, or healthy relationships. It felt materialistic, but Donna needed a car. She imagined herself driving a cute, reliable vehicle. Then her mind raced off in other directions. What was Tim doing right now? Working? Golfing? Taking another woman to lunch? Ugh! New car! NEW CAR! She yelled it in her head. Her mind kept looping back to Tim, to arguments and betrayal and heartbreak.

Those last five minutes were torture.

Finally, it was over. Donna sighed in relief.

Then the instructor said they had homework.

“Yes, homework!” The unbelievably beautiful woman with long black hair and flashing green eyes smiled at the collective moan. “Before class tomorrow, find a special notebook that you will use only for your mantras and manifestations. Don’t just grab a spiral-bound from your kids!” She paused and wagged a finger. There was laughter.

She went on, “There’s a selection of blank books in the shop. Choose one that speaks to you, makes you feel happy or empowered or at peace. Write down today’s mantra,” she indicated the white board: I am safe, I am free. “Set a timer for once an hour to focus on the mantra.” Then she turned to write on the board: Manifestation. She underlined it three times. “Write down what you want to manifest just as you visualized it. Be specific. Meditate on your manifestation before you go to sleep, and when you first wake up.” She put her marker down, placed her palms together and bowed her head. “Namaste!”

Donna was a little slow to return the gesture. She was rusty. She remembered it from a yoga class she had taken years ago, when Tim had suggested she get more exercise. No, she deliberately corrected herself. He didn’t suggest I get more exercise. He said my ass was getting too big and I needed to lose weight. Her new therapist had counseled brutal honesty with herself during this uncertain time.

The teacher left the classroom to stand behind the cash register in the shop.

Donna watched from under her thick, reddish-brown bangs. Nice, she thought. Charge us a ridiculous fee for a class on how to daydream, then milk us for supplies.

She scolded herself for her cynicism. Everyone has to make a living, she told herself. She moseyed to the blank books shelf. It had already been half cleaned out; people were in line at the register. Donna looked over the limited selection that remained but didn’t like anything she saw. Flower patterns? Tie dye? Witchy symbols? No. She’d have to find her notebook elsewhere.

Leaving the shop, Donna took an Uber to Leisure Lagoon. She tried to swim every day. After her laps, she let herself float for a while. She loved the sparkles of mica in the water here, it was like being suspended in glitter. With her ears below the surface, she listened to the ocean like when she was a child.

Picture what I need to manifest, she thought. She tried, very hard, to imagine a reliable little car with great gas mileage. Staying with her twin, Dana, in San Diego for a while was fine. The city had great public transportation, and lots to do. But sooner or later she’d want to go somewhere out of town, or even just drive to the beach on her own.

Relying on her sister or public transportation was too much like relying on Tim. She had been mostly stuck at home trying to be a Stepford Wife for the past six years. She’d had to Uber to the grocery store, and the only time she got to socialize or go for a drive, it had been with Tim. He was in control of all their finances and insisted she didn’t really need a car. Not being able to just jump in her own car and drive made her feel trapped. Donna couldn’t stand feeling trapped.

I am safe, I am free, she silently mouthed the mantra several times before wading to shore. The mantra felt good, she only hoped it was true.

Mantra done. Visualization done. Just before her feet cleared the water entirely, she said aloud, “But first I need a notebook. And to make a decision.”

Just before she reached her bag and towel, a car horn honked in the nearby parking lot. Donna glanced over, and so did a nearby jogger. He ran into her and they both fell, sprawled together in the sparkling sand.

He was a good-looking guy, blond and leanly muscular. He was also clearly embarrassed and remorseful. “I took my eyes off the sand and tripped,” he explained.

“It’s okay, no harm done,” Donna assured him as she struggled to get up from the shifting ground. Her fingers brushed against something buried a few inches down, and she pulled it out of the sand. “Is this yours?” she asked, before it even registered that she held a pocket-sized black notebook.

He shook his head. They both looked around. The beach was far from crowded. “Anybody lose a notebook?” Donna tried to shout it, but her voice was not used to speaking up. After her second attempt, a woman looked over from about twenty yards away. Her face was obscured by a huge, floppy sun hat. She shook her head, long black hair shimmering along her back, and went back to reading a book.

“Guess it’s yours now,” the jogger commented over his shoulder as he regained his pace. He only got as far as the woman with the sun hat—hey, is that my manifestation instructor? Donna wondered. The man bent to kiss her casually before running into the ocean to cool off.

Figures, they’re both gorgeous, Donna thought as she dusted the book off. It was a sturdy little thing, held closed with a strip of elastic. She opened it to look for the owner’s contact info, feeling suddenly squeamish. Little black books carry certain connotations. She imagined a list of women’s names and numbers . . . just like the book she’d found in Tim’s desk. “They’re just clients, Donna!” he had insisted. The number of stars scribbled beside each name were to indicate how promptly they paid his fees, of course! It wasn’t his fault most of his clients were women, women usually needed a good lawyer during a divorce!

It had made sense, and Tim had yanked the book out of her hand before she could study it more closely to see if there were any men’s names. “You’re so jealous and paranoid,” Tim snapped, walking away.

But this book was blank. It was, in fact, just what she needed for her “Manifestation” class. She even liked the color. It was a little like thumbing her nose at Tim.

Inspecting the hard cover more closely, she found a symbol stamped into the surface: A circle surrounding the initials DM. Almost a circle, she realized as she studied it more closely. It was a horseshoe, open toward the top.

Donna stared at the initials, running her fingers lightly over them and the encircling symbol that seemed to hold them safe without trapping them.

I am safe, I am free, she thought, and suddenly she was sure of what she really needed in her life: a damned divorce. Tim had used her, financially abused her, controlled her, fooled around on her, and gaslighted her over and over again until there were times she thought she was losing her mind. Now he was begging her not to leave, promising to change. He had even encouraged her to take a vacation to think things over, offered to send her on a cruise. That was his resolution to everything, Donna realized: throw money at it. She had certainly never wanted for any physical comfort. But she didn’t want him paying for a cruise, which would have a specific itinerary. He’d know exactly where she was and when. The ocean had tempted her, as Tim had known it would, but she’d feel trapped on a boat.

That was why she was here in San Diego, staying with her sister. That was why she was trying to “manifest her new life.” That was why she was swimming every day, just like she and her sister had done as children growing up on Maui. She was trying to find herself again, to find some happiness that didn’t depend on Tim’s wallet.

She was here to make a decision, and suddenly the decision was made. The biggest problem would be finding an attorney who could take Tim on. That would cost money. She estimated the retainer alone would run about $10,000. She didn’t have access to that kind of cash.

She flipped through the little blank notebook again, and noticed a pocket built into the back cover. There was a thick envelope tucked in the pocket, with nothing written on the outside. Oh, Donna thought, maybe the owner’s info is in this.

Donna stood in the sunlight, debating. She felt weird about opening some stranger’s envelope, but there was no way around it. She ripped the top open and tried to peek at the documents without pulling them out. The papers seemed to be birth certificates and other important records. There was a cover letter, with what she assumed was a current phone number: 906-555-1111.

A little saddened, because she did really like the notebook, Donna fished her cellphone out of her bag.

“Hello?” A man’s voice answered, tone completely neutral.

Donna panicked for a second, not sure what to say. She didn’t want to give the documents to the wrong person. Finally, she managed, “Hi, I’m sorry, but did you lose a small, black notebook?”

“Oh, thank you!” the man said fervently. “Did you find it? Do you know about the reward?”

Reward? “No. I mean, yes. Yes, I found it. There’s . . . a reward?”

“Absolutely. All my important papers are in that envelope. I’ve been advertising in the local papers and all over social media. It’s up to twenty thousand dollars now.”

Donna almost choked. Her knees gave out and she fell on the sand again. The landing wasn’t as kind to her this time and her teeth clacked together when her butt hit the ground. “That isn’t necessary,” she managed to whisper, knowing it was the right thing to say. “Actually, this may sound strange, but can I keep the notebook?”

There was a pause, then a light laugh. “It’s completely necessary and yes, you can also keep the notebook. Tell me where to meet you.”

Donna told the stranger where she was. When the conversation was over, she started to laugh. Hard, out loud! She caught herself and, self-conscious, glanced around. The beautiful couple had gone. Some children were splashing around on the other side of the lagoon, paying her no attention.

Donna tucked the little notebook into her beach bag, smiling. She would get her reward, get a divorce, and—most importantly—she’d take back her maiden name. She’d keep the little black notebook. After all, once the divorce was final, the initials would be hers: DM, for Donna Mahi.