by Allen Zadoff
I look at her eyes. They’re bright green, dotted with a few speckles of brown. I don’t think I’ve ever looked directly in her eyes. I’m always seeing her from behind or the side, studying different parts of her without really looking at her.
For a moment I consider hugging her, or at least opening my arms to see what happens. Maybe sick mom equals hugs from girls. If the mean Israeli office lady was scratching my back ten minutes ago, who knows what’s possible?
“I’ve got a ton of questions to ask you,” she says.
“Why?”
“The dean wants us to prepare something for him to say.”
“Like at a funeral.”
“Not at all,” she says, horrified.
“I just mean—You know how the rabbi interviews the family before a funeral so he knows what to say?”
I’m thinking about when Zadie died. His rabbi asked if I had any special memories of my grandfather. What I mostly remembered was how my mother complained every weekend when we had to go over to his house. And my father would say, “Zadie bought us this house. We can suck it up for one more Shabbat.”
“It’s not a funeral,” The Initials says. “God forbid.”
“I know,” I say.
“But you’re okay if I ask you some things?”
“Of course.”
The Initials looks at her phone.
“Shoot, look how late it is,” she says. “I have math first period and Burchstein’s a killer.”
“Professor Burchstein? That’s AP calculus. I didn’t know there were juniors in that class.”
She shrugs. “I’m pretty good at math. And I’m out of courses after this, so I have to take classes at UCLA next year.”
“Impressive.”
“Right. Jewish girls who are good at math. Very exciting stuff.”
“You guys should have your own calendar. How many of you are there?”
“Just me.”
“Do you have twelve good photos?” She laughs.
“You should get to class,” I say. “I mean, we don’t want the wrath of Burchstein coming down on you.”
“How about if I get your number?” Judi says. “We can meet up someplace later. I mean, if that’s okay with you. We’ve only got a few days to put this whole thing together.”
“It’s okay with me,” I say.
Judi waits.
“Your number?” she says.
I try to think of my phone number, and I can’t. Not with her staring at me. I start to panic, not knowing what I’m going to do. Then I remember that you can look at your phone and check the number in the settings.
I take out my phone while she waits patiently with her own.
“New phone,” I say. “Oh, okay,” she says.
The number finally pops up, and I read it to her. “Thanks, Sanskrit. I’m glad we’re having a chance to be of service to you like this. Barry is excited, too.”
“Barry?”
“Barry Goldwasser.”
“Oh, that Barry.”
“He’s everywhere, right?”
“Like acne,” I say.
“Ouch,” she says. “So I’ll call you soon.”
She walks out, and I stand there, trying to make sense of everything that’s just happened.
The plan. I was going to tell the dean the truth.
I could still do it. March upstairs and pull the whole thing down on top of me. But if I do that, The Initials is gone.
No. She’s not The Initials anymore.
Judi.
She has a name. We know each other again. She even has my phone number.
If I tell the truth, that’s over.
Maybe my plan needs to be adjusted.
I’ll get to know Judi better, at least well enough that she understands me. She might even understand why I did what I did. Then when I tell the dean, I’ll have someone on my side. And if she’s on my side, the students might understand, too. It won’t be such a big deal that I lied. It might even be funny to them.
Judi and me, standing together. Almost like my vision.
I just have to give us enough time to remember each other.
“I’m proud of you.”
That’s what Mom says when I tell her what happened with Dr. Prem. I don’t tell her about my vision. But I say that Dr. Prem adjusted me, and I felt a lot better afterwards.
“I knew you would feel better,” Mom says. “You fight me on things that I know are good for you. But when you do them, you find out I’m right.”
That’s when I realize Mom’s not really proud of me. She’s proud of herself. When I do what she wants and it works out, she feels like a success.
“You’re always right, Mom.”
“Really?” she says, getting excited.
That’s the secret of a good relationship with Mom. I have to be like Herschel’s dad, Mr. Weingarten, and go along with everything Mom says. Nodding. It’s the key to everything.
But nodding means accepting the guru, watching mom crash and burn and maybe take us down with her.
That’s not my vision. My vision is to change my life. To bring my family back together.
You can’t have a strange man stay at our house.
That’s what I’m going to say to Mom. I’ll tell her it’s for Sweet Caroline’s sake as well as mine. I’ll talk about how it’s not healthy for a young girl to see those things. No matter that Sweet Caroline is twelve going on forty-seven. She’s a kid and she needs positive influences. Preferably ones who don’t wear sheets and smell like essential oils.
“We need to talk about the guru,” I say.
“He’s gone,” Mom says with a wave of her hand.
“Gone where?”
“From our house. Don’t worry so much, Sanskrit.”
“I’m not worried,” I say, even though it’s not true.
“I have an idea,” Mom says.
I brace myself.
Mom + Idea = Danger
“How about we go out to dinner tonight. Just you and me,” she says.
“Is this your idea?”
“Who else’s idea would it be?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s a mother-son date. What do the psychologists call it?”
“Quality time?”
“Exactly. I owe you a dinner, and I pay my debts. Anywhere you’d like to go. As long as they have a vegetarian option.”
“What about Sweet Caroline?”
“She’s having dinner at a friend’s house. What do you think?”
I think I can barely believe it. But I say, “It’s a date.”
“Why don’t you pick a place,” Mom says.
I’m thinking I have to keep Mom out of Brentwood if possible. “How about Vegan Glory?”
I choose it because it’s over by The Grove, and even though it’s fake vegan stuff, it’s also fake Thai, which means I have a decent shot at some noodles with peanut sauce, and Mom won’t complain.
“Are you sure? I didn’t think you liked vegan food,” Mom says.
“I like it well enough.”
Actually, I hate it. I don’t know why I always tell Mom I like it.
Mom smiles. She says, “You won’t hear an argument from me. What do you think if we get dressed up a little. Make it special.”
Special. I like the way that sounds.
“Do you love beef?”
That’s what the waiter says, and he gives us a big wink. I want to ask him why the hell we’d come to Vegan Glory if we loved beef. Then he winks with the other eye. Which makes me think he might have a tic. It’s hard to resent a waiter with a tic.
“I hope you love, love, love beef,” he says, and winks again, “because tonight’s special is Beef Lover’s Rainbow.”
“A rainbow made of beef? How delicious,” I say. “Does it come with a unicorn made of bacon?”
“You’re a funny guy,” he says.
“This is my son. He has a great sense of humor,” my mother says.
�
��I can hear that,” the waiter says.
“Tell us about the beef,” Mom says.
“It’s not real beef, of course. It’s a beef illusion.”
“Good, because we’re paying with a cash illusion,” I say.
Mom laughs. I’m feeling good tonight. I’m dressed up. I’m out with Mom. If you added Dad to the mix, it would be like my vision in Dr. Prem’s office.
“Beef or cash, they are both illusory,” he says. “Everything that seems solid is not solid at all. That’s a Zen principle.”
“That’s very deep,” I say, because I see Mom nodding like she agrees.
“Why don’t you order it?” Mom says. And then without even waiting for me, she tells the waiter: “Let’s get a beef rainbow for my son.”
“Wow,” I say. “Okay.”
“We’ll get the chicken satay, too,” Mom says. “And you love noodles, don’t you Sanskrit?”
“That’s a lot of food, Mom.”
Mom waves me off, then turns back to the twitchy waiter. “Peanut noodles. And black rice, too. And could we get the black tofu cod?”
“Impressive,” the waiter says.
“My son and I are celebrating,” Mom says.
“What are you celebrating?” the waiter says.
“What are we celebrating?” I say.
“Life,” Mom says. “The miracle of life. The way it’s constantly changing and surprising you.”
I’m not sure what Mom is talking about, but I nod and smile like I’m on board with the idea.
“That’s really something to celebrate,” the waiter says.
“We should celebrate every day, but we don’t. We forget,” Mom says.
“So true,” the waiter says.
He and Mom look at each other like something deep is passing between them.
The waiter goes, and Mom pats the chair beside her. “Sit next to me,” she says. “Really?” I say.
“Why not?”
I get up and move next to her. “You’ve got a lot on your mind,” Mom says. “Oh, no. Is this one of those mom-son talks I’ve heard so much about?”
“Very funny,” she says. I take a sip of water. “Talk to me, Sanskrit.”
I look at her, trying to see if she really means it. She’s in a good mood, so I decide to risk it.
“Do you ever think about Dad?” I say.
“What is there to think about?” she says.
“What happened between you.”
“That was a difficult chapter in my life, Sanskrit. And it was a long time ago.”
“Not so long.”
“I don’t understand you. Most kids move on after divorce. I know it was painful for you, but life goes on. Things change.”
“Not for me.”
“For everyone.”
I think about second grade. The Initials. The end of The Initials.
“I hang onto things a long time,” I say. “I don’t know why.”
“It’s because you don’t believe in anything. How can you surrender your life when you think you’re in charge of it?”
I take a sip of water.
“Lots of kids at B-Jew don’t believe, and it’s not a problem for them.”
“You know I don’t like when you call it that.”
“I’m just saying I’m not the only nonbeliever.”
“I’m not asking you to believe what they teach you at school. I just think you should believe in something greater than you.”
“But why?”
Mom thinks about it.
“Well, for one thing, not believing really bothers you.”
I don’t say anything.
“Why do you think that is?” Mom says.
I shrug. Is Mom right? I’m not sure.
“You could talk to the guru about it,” Mom says.
“Why did you have to bring him up?”
“He’s a spiritual leader. Maybe he could be a resource for you.”
“I go to Jewish school. I’ve got plenty of resources.”
Real resources, I think. Not self-proclaimed resources.
Before Mom can say anything else, we’re interrupted by a plate of chicken satay.
I look at skewers of something that approximates chicken, complete with a thick peanut sauce to dip it in. It may be fake, but it’s also fried. Everything tastes good when it’s fried, even crappy vegetarian food. It’s the most democratic of the cooking processes.
Mom bows her head. I wait for her to finish praying or whatever it is she does, and then I dig in.
“I’m glad we have some time together,” Mom says as she attacks her skewer.
“Me, too,” I say. “Especially without Sweet Caroline.”
“That’s not nice.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say.
I remind myself to be careful about telling the truth. Most of the time Mom doesn’t like it.
The rest of the food arrives. Steaming sticky rice, a giant platter of peanut noodles, and the beef rainbow dish, which neither looks like beef nor rainbow. Finally, the waiter brings out a giant tofu patty shaped like a smiling fish.
“What’s he smiling about?” I say. “We’re going to eat him.”
Mom laughs, but then she stops suddenly and looks over my shoulder. Her eyes widen.
“What are the chances?” she says.
I turn around.
The guru is walking into Vegan Glory.
At first I’m stunned. I can’t believe he’s here, all the way on the east side of town. Then I think we’re in a popular vegan place, so it’s not so surprising. Then I think something else, but I push that out of my head.
Mom jumps up, smiling.
The guru sees us and comes over. He’s dressed in clean, bright blue sheets, beaming his guru smile. He looks like a happy load of laundry.
“Namaste,” Mom says, giving him a bow, her hands pressed in front of her chest.
“Namaste,” the guru says. “Dear Rebekah. And dear Sanskrit.”
“I’m not your dear,” I say. “And neither is my mom.”
“It’s an honorific,” the guru says, but with his accent, it’s a little hard to understand him. It sounds like a combination of horror and terrific.
Terrific horror. Welcome to my world.
“What a surprise,” Mom says.
She’s smiling so hard, it looks like she’s wearing a mask. Happy Mom mask.
“A surprise, yes,” the guru says. But he doesn’t seem surprised at all.
There’s an awkward moment with the three of us standing over a table full of food. Then Mom says, “Would you like to join us, guru? You don’t mind, do you, Sanskrit?”
“It doesn’t thrill me,” I say.
They both look at me.
I think about walking out of the restaurant without a word. Slamming the door behind me like I did in the gym the other night.
Then I remember we’re far from home, all the way on Beverly and La Cienega near The Grove. I could take a bus home. But nobody takes the bus in L.A. Correction: lots of people take the bus, but not a lot of kids in Brentwood. I curse myself for not knowing how the buses work. I could call a cab, but that would be like thirty dollars or more. I’d have to ask Mom to borrow money before I stormed out. That would sort of ruin the gesture.
In other words, I’m stuck.
“Sanskrit. May I join you?” the guru says.
Is he really asking, or is he just being polite? I look at Mom with her happy mask still on.
“Fine,” I say.
“Good,” he says, “Because I am famished.”
Mom calls for an extra place setting for the guru. People around the restaurant are looking at us. You don’t often see a man dressed head to toe in blue in Los Angeles. Not unless he’s panhandling on the Walk of Fame.
The waiter with the twitch comes back to the table. He takes one look at the guru and bows deeply.
“Guru Bharat!” he whispers.
“Please,” the guru says, gesturing for
him to rise.
“What an honor,” the waiter says, and winks three times. “What brings you to our humble restaurant?”
“Hunger,” the guru says.
“That is so profound,” the waiter says.
The waiter puts down a fork and backs away.
“You must get that a lot,” Mom says.
“Misunderstanding?” the guru says. “Yes, I get it a lot. Don’t we all?”
“Amen,” I say.
Mom throws me a warning look.
“Let’s eat before it gets cold,” Mom says.
She looks at the guru, whose head is bowed.
“Wait,” she says to me, and I pause with a chicken skewer halfway in my mouth while the guru prays.
It goes on for a long time—so long that my mouth starts to water. Finally, the guru looks up. I chew.
The guru pulls up his long sleeves and digs into the tofu fish.
“Tell me about yourself, Sanskrit,” he says.
I’m still holding the skewer in my hand. I think about poking him in the eye with it.
“Nothing to tell,” I say.
“Sanskrit goes to Jewish school,” Mom says.
“The religion of your birth,” the guru says to Mom.
“You remember,” Mom says.
“I remember everything from our chats,” the guru says.
Mom giggles and puts her hand on the guru’s forearm. The fake chicken churns in my stomach.
“How do you feel about being Jewish?” the guru asks me.
“I love it,” I say.
“He does not love it,” Mom says.
“Sure I do. We invented the bagel. How can you not love that?”
“I wish you would tell the truth,” Mom says.
Her hand is still on the guru’s arm. I stare at it.
I look at Mom—her makeup, the way she’s taken her hair down into two loose pigtails, the white dress with blue stitching that she never wears.
“I wish you would tell the truth, too,” I say.
“What are you talking about?” Mom says.
“You planned this. This whole coincidence. It’s not a coincidence at all.”
“That’s not true,” Mom says.
“It’s more than true,” I say. “And I’m sick of pretending it’s not.”
I pull at my button-down shirt. A minute ago it felt good on me, but now it feels scratchy, foreign.
