A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

MEREDITH
11 YEARS BEFORE
March
I just barely make it to my nine o’clock vinyasa flow class on time. I
start by grounding my class. I ask them to find any comfortable
position. There we focus on breath. I invite my students into a
deeper awareness of their current mental and physical state. I focus
on mine. I use this time to try and shake off the fear I feel after
having just received another threatening text. I’m not used to feeling
so out of control, so frantic. But these text messages have me all
worked up. I tell my class to breathe in through their noses. To let the
air fill their bellies, then their chests. When they exhale, I want to
hear them. I breathe as they do, trying to force myself to relax.
There’s no one in the world who should want to hurt me. No one has
any reason to wish me dead. I’m an extremely conscientious woman.
I’ve done nothing wrong.
I lead my students in a short, guided meditation. We move into our
warm-up. We work our way toward peak pose. I move around the
room. I help my students find proper alignment, trying hard to distract
myself from the thoughts inside my head.
The lights in the studio are turned down. The classroom is heated,
the thermostat set to ninety degrees. There are humidifiers.
Everyone sweats, including me.
We say, “Namaste,” and then everyone leaves.
After class, I have a meet and greet with a potential new doula
client and her husband. Our plan is to meet at eleven. It’s standard
protocol, to see if they like me and vice versa. We’ve made
arrangements to meet at a public spot—a coffee shop—in case they
turn out to be dodgy. For all the horror stories you hear about
Craigslist—people being lured to strange homes by classified ads,
only to be murdered when they arrive—it seems smarter this way. It
makes me feel safer to meet in a public spot.