Since You Left Me

by Allen Zadoff

  “That’s right,” Dad says, like he’s taught me a valuable lesson.

  “Daddy, have you gotten any calls from school?” Sweet Caroline says.

  I throw a warning glance towards the backseat.

  “Why would I get a call from your school?”

  “From Sanskrit’s school.” Sweet Caroline corrects him.

  “No calls,” he says. “At least I don’t think so. I’m not big on listening to messages. Is there a problem?”

  “No problem,” I say.

  Dad sounds leery. He’s not good with problems. Sweet Caroline says, “They’re doing some fund-raising for next year.”

  “Fund-raising? Oh, no,” Dad says.

  Sweet Caroline smiles back at me, and suddenly I go from hating her to thinking she’s a genius. Dad doesn’t have much money, and if he thinks the school is calling to ask for some, he will avoid them at all costs.

  In other words, we’re safe.

  For now.

  “Nice to see you again, Zuckerman family.”

  This is how Dr. Prem’s office manager greets us when we walk in. What family is she talking about? Calling us a family is like calling an asteroid a planet. It’s not a planet. It’s part of a planet. The shattered remains of a planet, thrust out of its orbit and shooting through space.

  She doesn’t care. She’s just happy to see us.

  “Zuckerman family, reporting for quackery,” Dad says, and he salutes.

  “Cut it out, Dad,” I say.

  It takes guts to walk into a doctor’s office and call them quacks. It’s sort of stupid, too. You don’t want to piss off your doctor before he works on you. Especially a chiropractor. What if instead of an adjustment, he decides to snap your neck like James Bond? If anyone knows how to do that, it’s a chiropractor.

  “I’m sorry,” Dad says. “I thought you hated it here.”

  “I don’t hate it,” I say, even though I do. “And keep your voice down.”

  I glance at the office manager.

  “Whatever,” Dad says. “We’re here. And on time.”

  “Gold star for you!” the office manager says.

  “Hey, this is my kind of place,” Dad says.

  Dad expects praise for doing things you’re supposed to do, like showing up for your kid’s appointment on time.

  The office manager hands me my chart and directs me back to one of the carrels.

  “Do you need me to come with you?” Dad says.

  “It’s not the dentist, Daddy,” Sweet Caroline says. She’s making herself tea from the dispenser.

  When we were kids, Dad used to come into the dentist’s with us because we were so afraid. He hated it even worse than we did. He said the sound of the drill reminded him of the machines at Zadie’s terry cloth factory and gave him a migraine.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say.

  “Good luck then,” Dad says, and he puts his arms straight out in front of him and moans like a mummy.

  I head to the back, slip off my shoes, and lie down on the hard table. You’re supposed to meditate while you wait for your adjustment. I listen to the sound of water from an electric fountain and a recording of someone chanting in a foreign language. I wonder if it’s Sanskrit. The sad thing is, I wouldn’t even know if it was because I don’t speak any Sanskrit.

  I arrange my neck pillow behind me, and I try to count my breaths. It doesn’t work, so I try to focus on an object, a particular ceiling tile with a pattern that almost looks like a smiley face. When that doesn’t work, I try to feel where my body is in space, monitoring my five senses. All of these are tricks I’ve learned from Mom. But instead of relaxing me, meditating just makes me think faster and faster. Why would anyone meditate if it just makes things louder?

  I feel a gentle touch on my foot.

  I look up into the smiling face of Dr. Prem and his white turban. I have nothing against Sikhs or people who wear white as a lifestyle choice, but I just don’t believe in it. I don’t believe in the power of white, or the healing magic of the Kundalini yoga he always talks about, or even alternative treatments like chiropractic. I come because it makes Mom happy. And it sort of feels nice when your back cracks.

  “How are you, Sanskrit?” he says.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s find out,” he says, and he starts to press different points on my body.

  He presses the center of my chest, holds his hand there for a moment. I start to feel afraid. What if he can feel what’s going on with me? The anger inside of me, the secrets I’m keeping. What if he could get all of it just by touching me, and the secrets came rushing out of my body without my being able to stop them?

  He presses my chest again, but nothing bad happens. He simply says, “Very interesting.”

  I open my eyes. He’s smiling at me.

  “I don’t believe in this,” I say.

  “Why do you come?”

  “Because my mother wants me to.”

  “I like that,” he says.

  “You like that I don’t believe in what you do?”

  “No, I like that you were honest.” He leans towards me, his voice dropping to a whisper:

  “We don’t have to do the adjustment. I’ll tell your mother I did it, but I won’t charge her.”

  “That’s okay,” I say. “I like the cracking sound.”

  “You’re sure?” he says. “I’m here,” I say. “We might as well do it.” So he begins.

  He holds up my arm and presses a few places on my stomach and chest. Then he sits me up and has me lean back into him, cradling me as he cracks one place in my back. It makes me laugh because it feels like being a baby.

  After that he cracks my neck, a loud crack that sends a shiver across my shoulder, down my arm, and out my fingertips.

  “The lights are on,” he says.

  He has me turn over and put my head in the donut so I’m looking at the floor. He presses a little clicky thing on my back.

  The chanting in the room gets louder.

  “What language is she singing?” I say.

  “Your language,” Dr. Prem says.

  “Mine?”

  “Sanskrit.”

  “I wondered about that,” I say. I relax into the table. My body feels better. My head is quieter.

  I feel the tiniest bit happy, like things aren’t as bad as I thought they were.

  The woman sings in Sanskrit, the language of me.

  Dr. Prem finishes the adjustment by asking me to take a deep breath and hold it. He says, “Think about any physical pain or tension in your body.”

  There’s lots of physical pain and tension.

  A pain in my neck from Mom.

  A pain in my ass from Sweet Caroline.

  A pain in my gut from not having a girlfriend.

  And a pain somewhere lower that I don’t want to talk about.

  Dr. Prem says, “Exhale,” and I let the pain go.

  “Again,” he says, and I breathe in and hold it. “This time imagine any emotional distress—worries, fears, upset.”

  I’ve got a lot of that, too. Maybe more than a sixteen-year-old should have. I exhale and try to let it go.

  “Last time,” Dr. Prem says, “the deepest breath yet.”

  I suck in a long, deep breath.

  “You are connected to the Infinite and Divine—” Dr. Prem says.

  I’m flooded with a feeling of lightness.

  “—with every breath that you take,” Dr. Prem says. “Now exhale.”

  I let the air rush from my lungs. I try to make the big whoosh sound that Dr. Prem likes to hear.

  That’s when it hits me.

  A vision.

  Maybe that’s the wrong name for it. I don’t believe in visions. But it’s something.

  I see me with The Initials, walking hand in hand in a forest.

  We walk into a clearing, and Mom is there. She’s sitting with a picnic spread out in front of her. A vegetarian cornucopia. The Initials and I join her. We
laugh and talk about everything with Mom.

  Dad walks by and sits down next to us. He and Mom look at each other—a kind look, not the nasty glances they give each other in real life.

  Even Sweet Caroline is there. She comes bounding out of the forest and plops down next to me, jams her hand into a bowl of blue corn chips.

  We’re all happy in this vision. Together and happy. And then it dissolves.

  I open my eyes.

  “Where did you go?” Dr. Prem says.

  “I’m not sure.”

  He touches my shoulder.

  “Rest here for a moment.”

  I lie on the table, exhaling long breaths up towards the ceiling.

  Dr. Prem marks something down on my chart. He puts it back in the holder and starts to walk away.

  “Do you believe in visions, Dr. Prem?”

  “I believe in everything,” he says.

  I have to change my life.

  That’s what I write in my journal the next day. It’s what I felt after my vision. The gap between my real life and the vision was so great that I have to do something about it. Life as it currently looks does not work for me anymore. I have no choice but to change.

  So I come up with a plan.

  It starts Monday morning. It starts with school. It starts with telling the truth.

  When I get to campus, I go straight to the main office. It’s empty except for the Israeli office lady.

  “Boker tov,” she says, tapping away on the computer.

  “Good morning to you, too,” I say. She looks up.

  “Sanskrit!” she says. She pronounces it correctly this time. She jumps up from her seat and throws her arms around me. Her chest presses against mine. It’s much softer than it looks from a distance.

  This woman hated me a few days ago, and now she’s holding me like her long-lost child. I’m so shocked, I don’t know whether to hug her back or run out of the room screaming.

  “How are you, motek? Oh, where’s your kippah?”

  I touch my head.

  “I guess I forgot it.”

  “Let’s get you taken care of.”

  She reaches into a drawer, pulls out a large crocheted kippah that looks like the Israeli flag. I wince as she pops it on my head.

  “I need to see the dean,” I say.

  “Of course. But he’s in the cafeteria right now.”

  “It’s really important.”

  “He wants to see you, too. I know he does. Go right down there.”

  I extract myself from her hug.

  “We’re all praying for your mother,” she says.

  She rubs my back in small circles. It feels kind of nice. I stay there for a second.

  “You poor boy,” she says. “I’m Dorit, by the way. If you need anything, you come and see Dorit.”

  “It’s a little itchy in the middle, Dorit.”

  “What’s that?”

  “My back. It’s a little itchy.…”

  She moves her hand to scratch me low and in the middle where it’s hard to reach. She has big nails, unlike my mom, who keeps hers trimmed all the way down for yoga. The nails feel good through my shirt.

  “Is that better?” she says.

  “Much,” I say.

  She smiles at me. I consider asking for a shoulder rub, but that seems a little over the top.

  “I’ll be in the cafeteria,” I say.

  “He’s here!”

  Talya Stein shouts when I walk into the cafeteria.

  I look behind me to see who she’s so excited about.

  “Sanskrit!” she says.

  It’s me.

  Normally, I’m not the kind of guy people get excited about seeing. I’m more like the guy in school you don’t notice until something bad happens to him. Juvenile cancer or rehab or something. But I guess Mom’s fake accident qualifies.

  I was expecting to find the dean at an early morning coffee meeting. Instead there is a bunch of students here. When Talya calls my name, a dozen of them turn around and burst into applause. It’s not standing ovation applause—more like that slow, steady applause that cheers you on. I hold up my hands to signal them to stop, but they just applaud louder.

  I wonder if this is how the guru feels when he walks into a room. You could get used to this kind of treatment.

  “Sorry to interrupt. I’m looking for the dean.”

  A couple of students point across the cafeteria. The dean is on the far side of the room talking to a girl who has her back to me. I can’t see her face, but I recognize her hair right away, tight curls spilling down to her shoulders.

  The Initials.

  I think of the vision in Dr. Prem’s office. The Initials and I were together holding hands.

  I have to remind myself that I’m not here to fantasize about The Initials. I’m here to tell the truth.

  The dean sees me walking towards him and stops talking. The Initials turns around and her eyes widen.

  “Shalom,” she says.

  “Shalom,” I say.

  These are the first words we’ve spoken to each other since second grade. Not the very first words, but the first kind words. We’ve spoken some excuse mes, some get out of my ways, some can I borrow a pencils, and other unavoidable school chatter. But we’ve never greeted each other.

  Shalom. Hello, good-bye, and peace—all in one word.

  The Initials. Love, pain, and grief—all in two letters.

  “Sanskrit,” she says.

  It’s exciting to hear her say my name after all this time.

  “Guilty,” I say, and I smile.

  “We used to go to elementary together.”

  “We did? I don’t remember.” Which is the second biggest lie I’ve told in my life.

  “How are you holding up, Aaron?” the dean says.

  “Good,” I say. Then I look at The Initials and add, “As good as can be expected.”

  “Of course,” he says.

  “I need to speak with you for a moment, sir,” I say. He says, “I’m a little embarrassed to be caught with my hand in the cookie jar like this.”

  “Cookie jar?”

  He motions towards the room, the students.

  “We’re planning a little something,” he says. He gives The Initials a nod. “It was the students’ idea. Ms. Jacobs presented it to me.”

  Judi Jacobs. JJ.

  The Initials.

  “We wanted to do something for your family,” she says. “A fund-raiser to help get your mom well.”

  “You’re giving us a telethon?”

  She laughs. The dean throws her a look.

  “Sorry, that was funny. But seriously, I hope the idea isn’t insulting. We just—I mean—the dean said they were keeping your mom down in South Bay—”

  “Orange County,” the dean says.

  “That’s right,” she says. “And she needs rehabilitation? That’s going to cost thousands of dollars.”

  The dean interrupts.

  “He gets the idea, Ms. Jacobs. Understand, Aaron. It’s as much for us as it is for you. A way for the school to come together and help a member of our community.”

  “We’re the planning committee,” The Initials says. “We wanted to surprise you.”

  “I’m surprised,” I say.

  I look around at the assembled students. It’s crazy that they’re all here for me. Crazy and touching at the same time. How am I going to tell them they’re wasting their time?

  That’s when I notice Barry Goldwasser in the crowd. Mr. One-Minute Mitzvahs himself.

  “We’re going to get your mom home, no matter what it takes,” he says, stepping to the front of the pack. “That’s one thing about the Jewish community. We take care of our own.”

  God, I hate this kid.

  “You said you needed to talk to me,” the dean says.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “What is it?”

  The Initials looks at me. They all do, all these kids who want to help me and my family.
r />   “Another time,” I tell the dean.

  “Are you sure? We can step out.”

  “I’m at a loss for words right now.”

  The students laugh. A nice laugh, like they’re on my side. I don’t hear a laugh like that very often.

  “We’ll plan the event for this Thursday night,” Barry says. “We’ll call it A Night of Tzedakah for—What’s your mother’s name?”

  “Rebekah,” I say.

  “Tzedakah for Rebekah. That has a nice ring to it,” he says.

  Tzedakah. Charity.

  “I know you have a lot going on,” The Initials says, “but I need a few minutes to ask you some questions about your life. So we can tell people about your family.”

  The first class tone sounds.

  “We’ll meet again at lunch, everyone,” Barry calls out.

  The room starts to clear.

  “Dean Shapiro,” The Initials says, “I know it’s time for class, but would it be alright if I stayed here and did a little work with—”

  “Of course,” he says.

  She smiles. That’s when I realize she’s talking about me.

  And her.

  Together.

  “You two take all the time you need,” the dean says. “I’ll let your first-period professors know you’ll be late.”

  Then he goes out and leaves us alone.

  “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

  The Initials flips open a yellow pad as she says it. She’s businesslike, getting ready for the interview while barely looking at me.

  “A long time since when?” I say.

  “Since we spoke last,” she says.

  “I’m not sure how long it’s been,” I say, even though I know exactly how long.

  “We were friends, like, a thousand years ago in second grade.”

  “That is a long time,” I say. “I barely remember.” She looks at her pad.

  “Me, neither,” she says. She clicks open a pen. “Anyway, I’m sorry to hear about your mom. Is there anything I can do?”

  “You’re doing it. Thank you.”

  “How is she? Everyone is wondering.”

  “You know—”

  I stare at the ground as if the thought of Mom’s suffering is too painful.

  “Say no more,” she says. And she smiles. “I’m glad we can help in some small way.”