Since You Left Me (13 page)

“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.

“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.”

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.