by Allen Zadoff
“Neither is Mom,” I say.
“That’s true,” Sweet Caroline says. “But we know how to work around her.”
Dad shouts in the other room, “My place is too small!”
“So get a job and buy a bigger place!” Mom says.
I wince. It’s painful to hear them cutting at each other like this. It reminds me of why they got divorced in the first place. At least why I thought they got divorced. Now I’m not so sure.
Sweet Caroline is looking at a gymnastics poster, tracing the pattern of a girl’s leotard.
“What are we going to do?” she says.
“I think I have a plan,” I say.
Sweet Caroline looks at me, hopeful for the first time.
“Maybe we can keep Mom here,” I say.
“You can’t convince her,” Sweet Caroline says.
“You know how Mom gets when she makes up her mind about something.”
“I don’t need to convince her. I need to convince him.”
“Dad?”
“The guru.”
“I want to talk man-to-man.”
The guru is sitting on a meditation mat when I say it. He’s alone in the small yoga room in the back of the Center. He doesn’t open his eyes or even flinch. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was expecting me.
“An excellent idea,” he says.
“In private,” I say, and I close the door behind me.
This is what I told Sweet Caroline I’d do. Tell the guru to back off and leave Mom alone. It’s probably what I should have done in the first place, but I was too afraid.
“We will talk,” the guru says with his eyes still closed, “but I think of it a little differently. I see us less as man-to-man, and more as spiritual being to spiritual being.”
“I’m not interested in word games,” I say. “I talked to my mom. I know you’re planning to take her away.”
“Sanskrit. I like to say your name. It gives me joy. As it does your mother.”
“She likes to say my name?”
“She gave you the name, didn’t she?”
“Yeah, but she’s usually frustrated when she says it.”
“It was her gift of love at your birth. A name is the first and greatest gift we give one another.”
“I never thought of it like that.”
“What else would a name be?” the guru says. “A curse.”
Like the Zuckerman name. Like growing up as the grandchild of a survivor and everything you do is supposed to prove that God had a reason for allowing the Zuckerman line to survive. But what if God had nothing to do with it? What if it was just luck? Or fate?
Or nothing at all. What if it happened just because?
“I don’t want to talk about this,” I say. “I want to talk about you taking my mother away.”
“You’re wrong about that,” he says.
“You’re not going to India together?”
“We are going on a journey. That’s true. What’s not true is that I’m taking her. She’s choosing to go.”
“She has children.”
“I realize this.”
“But you have no problem letting her abandon us.”
“I don’t understand. You have a father, don’t you?”
“More or less.”
“So you are not abandoned.”
“We’re abandoned by her. Not by him.”
“I see. It feels like abandonment to you,” he says.
“What would it feel like if your mother left you when you were a kid?”
“My mother died at an early age.”
“Oh.”
I sit down on the mat in front of the guru. “So you lived with your father?” I say.
He shakes his head.
“I did not know him, Sanskrit.”
“Who raised you?”
“I was taken in by—I think you call it an orphanage.”
“I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”
“It’s nothing to be sorry about. These are the cards—What’s the expression?”
“The cards you were dealt.”
“Yes,” the guru says.
“They’re bad cards.”
“I don’t believe in bad or good cards.”
“You’re not Jewish. We’ve had a lot of bad cards in our history.”
“My people have suffered as well. All people suffer. This is the first noble truth.”
“Why make it worse by taking our mother?”
The guru takes a long breath and pulls his ankles in tighter. I cross my legs like him.
“Your mother and I have something special together. A bond that goes back in time.”
“By time you mean February?”
“I mean a previous life.”
“Oh, please,” I say.
“You may not believe in such things, but I do.”
“I think you’ve confused her. Maybe even brainwashed her.”
“Your mother is making a choice. Just as you can make a choice.”
“What is my choice?” I say.
“To come with us.”
“To India?”
I laugh.
I wait for him to tell me it’s a joke, but he doesn’t. He slowly uncrosses his legs and recrosses them in opposite order, looking at me calmly the whole time.
“I’m inviting you,” the guru says, “now that I see you could benefit from it.”
“That’s crazy,” I say.
“Is it?”
“How could I benefit from going to India?”
“You are a spiritual seeker.”
“I’m not a spiritual seeker. I’m a—whatever you call the opposite of that. I don’t believe in anything. I’m supposed to, but I don’t.”
The faint sound of a gong chimes far down the hall. A yoga class is beginning in the big studio.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”
How dare I not believe when Zadie survived the camps? When I owe my whole existence to that fact? I wait for something terrible to happen, for an artery to explode in my head or an earthquake to shake the ground out from under me.
Nothing happens, just a second gong tone from down the hall.
“I’m supposed to believe,” I say. “I was born Jewish. I go to Jewish school. My grandfather—he left money so I’d be Jewish.”
“You cannot pay someone to be as you wish them to be.”
“That’s what I told my parents. But it was his final gift.”
“A gift that has become a burden.”
I never thought of it like that. A gift from Zadie’s perspective could be a burden from mine. God’s gift to Zadie was a burden, too. God gave him his life, and Zadie was obsessed with being a success, like he had to prove he was worthy of it.
“Maybe it’s time to lay down the burden,” the guru says.
He says it like it’s simple, but how do you do it? What does it even mean? Do I leave school? Do I stop being Jewish?
“You’re asking many questions in your head,” the guru says.
“Maybe.”
“May I make a suggestion?”
I nod.
“Don’t try to answer these questions,” the guru says. “Let them remain questions for the time being.”
“How can I not answer them?” I say.
“Because it’s enough just to ask them,” he says.
“But why ask if you’re not going to look for an answer?”
“I’m open to an answer if it comes, but I’m not actively looking for one. It’s a different way of approaching it. I don’t try to figure it out. I simply get comfortable holding the questions.”
I ask a question in my head:
Why is my mom so screwed up?
I try to do what the guru said and not answer it, but it’s impossible. My head fills with reasons.
“Sanskrit.”
The guru says my name. It snaps me out of it.
“You have to practice this technique,” he says. “Don’t expect to get it
immediately.”
I look across at him. We’re both sitting far apart on the floor, but it feels like we’re closer, like I could reach out and touch him.
“Come to India with your mother and I.”
“What would I do in India?”
“Grow.”
“I can grow here.”
“True,” the guru says. “But in India you might grow in a new way.”
“What about school?”
“We have many schools in India. It would be your choice which one to attend.”
“I wouldn’t have Zadie’s tuition money. Once I leave Jewish school, the money goes away. No second chances.”
“You wouldn’t need it there. We could get you into a private school that is affordable.”
I stand up.
“I don’t know what to say, guru.”
“Don’t say anything. Sit with the idea for a while. But it has to be your own choice. I would never tell you to leave school. Or your religion, for that matter. Sometimes, we return to the religion of our birth and find solace there. Other times, we must find the strength to rebel against it. Every journey is different.”
“I don’t know what my journey is,” I say.
“How could you?” he says. “You’re in the middle of it.”
“You have no idea where you’re going, do you?”
That’s what the woman in Starbucks says.
They’ve renovated since I was here last, and I was in the pickup line instead of the ordering line.
“Sorry,” I say, and I slip in behind her.
She grunts and turns her back to me. She stretches a little, then bends over to tie her sneaker. She’s wearing black yoga pants with blue stripes on the thighs that come to a V in her private place. It reminds me of lights on a runway. I hate her, but I wish I were a pilot at the same time.
“Wait. I recognize you,” the woman says.
She spins around, catching me looking at her butt. I quickly look up.
“The Center. Your mom is a teacher, right? I’m Sally.”
“Hey, Sally,” I say. She’s the Asian woman who was ready to attack the guru with a yoga mat last week.
“Your mom is the luckiest woman in the world.”
“She is?”
“If I had a guru interested in me? Wow. That’s like dating God.”
“He’s not a god,” I say. “He’s just like you and me.”
“Who says?”
“He says.”
“Of course he does. If he was God, he wouldn’t go around saying he was God. Only crazy people do that.”
“Can I help the next guest,” the barista says.
“Your mom is starting a whole new life,” Sally says. “It’s so exciting.”
She goes to the counter, and the entire line moves up one step.
Mom’s new life. Or our new life.
It’s up to me. At least according to the guru.
I think about leaving Jewish school. Going in for my last day. Saying good-bye to everyone. The CORE boys would walk by, and I’d say, “Hey, I won’t be around for Passover this year. I’m going to India.”
They wouldn’t believe it.
“Next guest,” the barista says.
I usually order a mocha latte if Mom isn’t around, a decaf organic soy fair trade latte if she’s watching. She hates that I like coffee, but I can drink it in front of her as long as I transform it into something politically correct that tastes bad.
“What can we get you today?” the barista says. She’s got on a starchy Starbucks apron and a hat adorned with multiple pins.
I say, “Do you have anything Indian?”
“You mean Native American. We don’t say Indian anymore.”
“We do if we mean something from India.”
“Oh. Well, that’s okay to say. But I don’t think we have coffee from India.”
“Do you have anything?”
“You mean like chai?”
“Right. That’s what I mean.”
“Grande chai latte,” the barista says, writing it on the side of a cup. “And what’s your name?”
“Sanskrit.”
“Say again.”
“Sanskrit. Like the language.”
“Oh,” she says. “No wonder you ordered the chai.”
She passes my cup down to the coffee prep area, and I follow it.
“Grande chai latte for … Sanskrit,” a barista calls. Then he chuckles.
“Good one, dude,” he says, and passes me the drink. He’s got a long beard braided with a red ribbon at the bottom.
“Do I need to do anything to it?” I say.
“Like what? Buy it a birthday gift?”
“No, like put sugar in it.”
“It’s already sweet.”
“I’ve never had one before.”
“Drink it, dude. Live a little.”
I sit down at a table by the window. I take a sip of the chai. It’s spicy, creamy, and sweet at the same time. I take another sip.
I look out the window at traffic moving down San Vicente. I imagine I’m in a café in India watching traffic on a street in Mumbai.
I try to wrap my head around the idea. Mom, me, and the guru in India together.
A text chimes on my phone. It’s Sweet Caroline.
wht hpnd w/ guru?
A wave of guilt hits me. How can I even think of leaving Sweet Caroline here alone?
But then I remember she hates spicy food. She hates most food, except chocolate. She also hates being dirty. I don’t know much about India, but I know there’s lots of spices and dirt. That would be like two strikes for her.
I decide that Sweet Caroline would be miserable in India, but she wouldn’t be miserable here. It’s true that Dad is irresponsible, but one extra person at his place wouldn’t be so bad. Dad would take her to See’s Candies and call her Sweet McGeet a hundred times a day.
She might even be happier.
I text her back:
tell u later
Because I need some time to think this over.
Just then, Talya Stein and Melissa Rabinowitz sit down outside the window. They’re both friends of The Initials. Their table is maybe twelve inches from mine, only on the other side of the glass. I’m trying to ignore them, but they’re too close. Melissa does that thing where she takes her long skirt and tucks it between her legs so it’s out of the way. She’s wearing tights underneath with a speckled pattern, colored dots traveling up and down her legs. I peek through the window a few times. For some reason, they haven’t noticed me. Or maybe they have, and they just don’t care.
I go back to my chai, then a shadow passes across the window. The Initials sits down.
Judi. She’s not The Initials anymore. Just Judi.
She’s in the seat right next to mine on the other side of the window. If we were at the same table, we’d be sitting next to each other.
I glance at her, but she doesn’t see me. It’s like I’m invisible, even though there’s only a pane of glass between us.
I take a slug of chai. The spice hits my tongue, and it wakes me up. It was the old Sanskrit who looks at girls through windows and does nothing. What about this Sanskrit? The one who calls The Initials by her real name?
This Sanskrit knocks on the window.
That’s what I do now. I tap. The girls are startled. They peer into the window. It’s sunny out, so the reflection must make it hard to see inside. It occurs to me that they weren’t ignoring me. They really couldn’t see me.
Judi presses her face to the window and cups her hands around her eyes like she’s looking through binoculars.
“Sanskrit!” she says through the glass.
She says something to the girls, then hops up from her seat, takes her backpack and coffee, and comes into Starbucks.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” she says.
“I can’t believe it’s me either,” I say.
Judi laughs. I made Judi laugh!
“I need
to talk to you,” she says.
“I need to talk to you, too,” I say.
She doesn’t laugh that time. Bummer. For a second I thought I was going to repeat everything she said, and she would love it. Now I see it’s going to be more complicated than that.
“This is perfect timing,” Judi says. “I mean, if you’re not in the middle of something.”
“I’m not. Well, I am. But I’m just thinking about stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Long story.”
“Can I ask you about your mother?”
“My mother?” I say, a little disappointed.
“If it’s not too painful,” Judi says. “I just need a little background. So we can write an introduction and everything.”
Judi puts a hand on my forearm.
“Of course,” I say. I’m hoping she’ll keep her hand on my arm, or even move it up to my shoulders, but she doesn’t. She sits across from me and takes a pad out of her backpack. She taps a quick text into her phone, then puts it into her bag and directs all her focus towards me.
“Tell me about her,” Judi says.
“What do you want to know?”
“Tell me what she likes.”
“She likes yoga. And tofu. And music with chanting.”
“I thought you were Jewish.”
“We are. But you can be Jewish and do yoga.”
“Right, but the chanting? What’s that?”
“It’s nondenominational chanting.”
“Are you sure it isn’t Buddhism or something like that?”
“Mom doesn’t belong to any particular religion. She dabbles.”
“Okay, let’s change the subject,” Judi says. She clicks the pen and scribbles on her pad. “I’m going to say that your mom has a lot of interesting hobbies and she likes to exercise.”
“That’s true,” I say.
“Does she have any cool expressions? Like, if she was a sports team, what would her motto be?”
“Eat healthy.”
“That’s not really a motto.”
Eat healthy so you can poop well. That’s Mom’s real motto. But I’m not telling Judi.
I say, “I just remembered Mom’s favorite expression: Whoever saves one life, saves the entire world.”
Mom doesn’t even know that expression, but I remember it from a B-Jew screening of Schindler’s List this year.
