Since You Left Me Read online

  Other books by Allen Zadoff

  Food, Girls, and Other Things I Can’t Have

  My Life, the Theater, and Other Tragedies

  EGMONT

  We bring stories to life

  First published by Egmont USA, 2012

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 806

  New York, NY 10016

  Copyright © Allen Zadoff, 2012

  All rights reserved

  www.egmontusa.com

  www.allenzadoff.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Zadoff, Allen.

  Since you left me : a novel / by Allen Zadoff.

  p. cm.

  Summary: “A Jewish teenager struggles to find something to believe in and keep his family together in the cultural confusion of modern-day Los Angeles”—Provided by publisher.

  eISBN: 978-1-60684-297-3

  [1. Faith—Fiction. 2. Jews—United States—Fiction. 3. Single-parent families—Fiction. 4. High schools—Fiction. 5. Schools—Fiction.

  6. Family life—California—Los Angeles—Fiction.

  7. Los Angeles (Calif.)—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.Z21Sin 2012

  [Fic]—dc23

  2012003782

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

  v3.1

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to Danny Silberstein and Simon Lousky for sharing their experiences in and out of Jewish school (and teaching me about getting flipped).

  Thanks to Taaly Silberstein for opening her home to me on many a Shabbat and for her beautiful example of what it means to live a Jewish life. Much thanks to Adam Silberstein for his incredible support, knowledge, and perspective.

  Extra special thanks to Ira Gewanter for his early read of the manuscript.

  As always, I’m very grateful to Stuart Krichevksy, Shana Cohen, and Ross Harris at SK for taking such good care of me.

  Finally, a giant thanks to Elizabeth Law and the Egmont team for making book three together such a great experience.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  An Israeli woman with large breasts is calling my name.

  I hate my mother.

  “It was a snowball rolling down a hill.”

  “You’re in trouble, Sanskrit.”

  “The universe is not what we think it is.”

  “Your grandpa was a real mamzer bastard.”

  “They’re girls, not gods.”

  “You think you’re number one, but you’re not.”

  “This is a trial, but it will pass.”

  “You’re killing me. I’m dying.”

  “I’ve got a little situation, professor.”

  “Excruciating.”

  “Mucous. Lots of it.”

  “Sat nam.”

  “Namaste.”

  “Don’t ruin this for me!”

  “Is that what a guru looks like?”

  “I’m worried about you.”

  “Mom is in love.”

  “He’s come for you.”

  “They will find us.”

  “You’re off balance, Sanskrit.”

  “Busy. Always very busy.”

  “Nice to see you again, Zuckerman family.”

  I have to change my life.

  “He’s here!”

  “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

  “I’m proud of you.”

  “Do you love beef?”

  I’m going away.

  “You’re awfully quiet.”

  “Where’s Mom going?”

  “Wake up.”

  “How could she just leave you here alone?”

  “My life is just beginning.”

  “I want to talk man-to-man.”

  “You have no idea where you’re going, do you?”

  “I’m miserable.”

  Ohhhh—

  “How do you know you can trust the guru?”

  “We’ve got a surprise for you, Mom.”

  “Mom is upside down, and it’s all your fault.”

  “Celebrate love!”

  “A moment.”

  “I don’t believe in you.”

  “How could you forget about it?”

  “Why does God bring suffering upon us? What purpose does it serve?”

  “I don’t know who you are anymore.”

  “A betrayal.”

  “You got what you wanted.”

  “It’s time.”

  “I’ve got everything on a list. I just need to find the list.”

  “Red lights are optional.”

  “We’re truly sorry it didn’t work out.”

  There’s nothing else to say.

  An Israeli woman with large breasts is calling my name.

  In most situations, an amply endowed woman with an accent who wants me for something—anything, really—is a good sign, but not tonight. Not in the high school gymnasium on the night we’re having parent-professor conferences. And not when the woman shouting is the new office lady trying to tell me it’s time for my conference.

  That is not a good thing. Not at all.

  “Sanskrit Aaron Zuckerman,” she shouts.

  That’s my name, in all its confusing glory. She says the Sanskrit part like it’s Hebrew, which is not a terrible guess given that we’re at Brentwood Jewish Academy. B-Jew for short. That’s what the students call it. The faculty does not appreciate the term.

  But my name, Sanskrit, is not Hebrew. It’s an ancient Indian language.

  “Sanskroo …,” she says, garbling it.

  When someone is looking in my direction and choking on a word, they’re almost always trying to say my name. Or they have a piece of corned beef stuck in their throat. It’s me or a choking incident.

  “Zuckerman?” the woman calls out, opting for the familiar territory of my last name. “The professors are ready.”

  Professors. That’s what we call them here, even though it’s only high school. We’re so college obsessed, we even use the nomenclature.

  Now I can see the Israeli office lady pushing her way through the crowd. She’s wearing her favorite outfit—a silky blouse that covers all of her skin yet leaves nothing to the imagination, and a long, too-tight skirt. Appropriate length. Inappropriate width. Which makes it all the more interesting.

  If she’s calling me, it’s time for my mother to go in and meet the faculty.

  Problem: my mother isn’t here yet.

  Solution: evasive action.

  I duck behind Mrs. Rosenthal. That’s easy to do because she is, shall we say, on the large side. When Moses climbed the mountain to get the tablets, I imagine the mountain looked something like Mrs. Rosenthal, only with a less attractive pantsuit. Mrs. Rosenthal is heading for a little nosh at the snacks table, and I move with her, using her ample girth as cover. I stay behind her until I get to Mrs. Stein, Talya’s mom, and then I jump behind her until I get to Barry Goldwasser’s parents. In this way, I hopscotch across the gymnasium using large Jews as cover until I’ve put as much distance as possible between myself and my name.

  I scan the room for my mother, hoping I’ve missed her.

  I haven’t.

  I look at my phone. No calls, and she’s over an hour late.

  My mother promised she’d be here. It’s just that she has a different definition of promise than the rest of the world. For her, it’s a relative term.

  Parent-professor conferen
ces can be squirm-worthy in the best of circumstances, but they’re especially problematic when your parents don’t show up. Not that I’d expect both of my parents to be here at the same time. They haven’t been in the same room in five years, unless you count my bar mitzvah. I’ve been trying to erase the memory of that day for years.

  But Mom has to be here. That’s because she missed the last one, along with just about every other school event, and we almost got expelled. I say “we” because they blame the whole family in our school. There’s no such thing as a student alone—the student is an extension of the family. They call it the Critical Family Dynamic. I call it Guilt by Association.

  In any case, we had to sign a Family Education Contract after that. It wasn’t all Mom’s fault. I blew off religious studies homework and skipped prayer four times in a month and got myself on academic probation. Basically, I was failing God.

  Failing HaShem.

  That’s what we call God here. HaShem. The Name in Hebrew.

  Anyway, I was already the dean’s special remodeling project because of my lack of religious commitment, and Mom not showing up made it a thousand times worse. In the family contract, we each agreed to a list of responsibilities. On the top of Mom’s list: stay engaged in the educational process by attending all meetings and conferences. On the top of mine: find God, or at least fake it well enough to get through Torah class and morning prayers.

  I drift towards the edge of the gym, weaving my way through the families. Parents stand in clumps, some with their arms around their children. They’re chatting and laughing, trying to look calm even though I can tell some of them are scared. Not every family got a good report about their child. You can feel the Ivy League hopes hanging in the balance. Not just Ivy. Yeshiva hopes, a year in Israel hopes. B-Jew hopes.

  Parents and the dreams they have for their children.

  I look at my watch. Where the hell is my mother?

  The new office lady stalks through the crowd with clipboard in hand, her angry breasts searching me out. She taps a kid on the shoulder.

  “Where is Sanskrit?” she asks him.

  The kid shrugs.

  I move in the opposite direction, stalling for time.

  I grab a knish and pretend I’m going to talk to someone I know. But I don’t really have anyone to talk to. I’m not what you call a popular kid. I’m more of an outsider. All Jews are outsiders in a certain way, so you really have to work to be on the outside of the outsiders. Actually, it’s not that difficult in Jewish school. All you have to do is not believe in God.

  There are other kids who don’t believe, but they do it quietly or couch it in intellectual inquiry. I do it openly and loudly. Add that to the fact I come from a family of divorce, I’m named after a dead goyish language, I have a yoga teacher for a mother and the Invisible Man for a father—you pretty much have the definition of outsider.

  I look up and I see Herschel, my former best friend, in a full suit and black fedora moving amongst the parents. He’s one of the few who dresses in religious garb in our school. Brentwood Jewish is an Orthodox school, but we’re a lot more modern than most. Herschel isn’t modern, not anymore. He’s in it to win it. Today he works the room like a politician, smiling and shaking hands, patting various parents on the shoulders as if to calm them. He’s comfortable with the parents, with the kids, with God. Especially with God. I wish I could believe like he does. Life would be so much simpler.

  There’s a tap on my shoulder.

  “Sanskrit. Am I saying that right?”

  The Israeli office lady. She found me.

  I say, “It’s San like sand. And skrit rhymes with Brit. Emphasis on the first syllable. San-skrit.”

  She looks at me like I’m an idiot, that special look Israelis have that makes you feel stupid because you’re soft, and American, and haven’t fired an UZI.

  “Sanskrit,” she says.

  Heads turn. God, this woman is loud.

  Most of these people know me, but even so, what’s a Jew doing with a name like Sanskrit? It’s the unspoken question everywhere I go.

  The woman says, “We’re ready for your parents.”

  “Parent. Singular,” I say. “For your information, my mom is stuck in traffic. She’ll be here shortly.”

  She wrinkles her nose.

  “What about your father?”

  “My parents are divorced.”

  The foundation of Jewish education is parent involvement.

  That’s what it says in our school brochure. It’s also written on the wall outside the main office. It’s on the letterhead of all the school newsletters.

  Parent involvement.

  “Even divorced parents come for conferences,” the office lady says.

  “If you look at my paperwork,” I say.

  She lifts the clipboard to chest level, and we both look at it. Actually, she’s looking at the clipboard. I’m looking elsewhere.

  She says, “Your father is listed as an alternate parent? Mah zeh? What is this?”

  Alternate. That’s code for, “Don’t expect that parent to show up.”

  “My father is not expected to come to school events,” I say.

  “That’s strange,” she says.

  “It’s not so strange,” I say.

  “No? Maybe my English is not good with this word?”

  I glance around the room. Half the parents are looking at me, and the other half are looking away. Which just means they’re listening.

  “Whatever,” I say. “Could you let someone else go ahead of me?”

  “You are the Z. There isn’t anyone else.”

  I see Herschel’s parents walking towards me.

  “Give me two minutes,” I tell the office lady, and I run towards the Weingartens.

  Herschel’s parents used to consider me a good influence on their son. We were close, we studied together, I got him out of the house. But now that he’s their religious pride and joy, I am no longer considered a good influence. I am considered a dangerous, subversive influence. As such, I am no longer welcome around the Weingarten household with the exception of a few major holidays. It’s not like they lock the doors and turn out the lights when they see me coming, but let’s just say the Shabbat invitations are infrequent.

  “Hello, Sanskrit,” Mrs. Weingarten says. “Is everything all right?”

  “Perfect,” I say.

  I glance behind me. The office lady has been temporarily swallowed up by the crowd.

  “I wanted to say shalom to your mother.”

  “She hasn’t arrived just yet,” I say.

  “I see,” Mrs. Weingarten says. “I hope there’s no problem.”

  “Maybe she left the country without telling me,” I say.

  “God forbid!” Mrs. Weingarten says.

  “It was a joke,” I say.

  “Sanskrit is funny. Remember, Mom?” Herschel says.

  He’s swooped in from the side to spare me any more embarrassment. Very decent of him.

  “Of course I remember,” Mrs. Weingarten says. She nudges her husband. “You remember Sanskrit, don’t you, Stanley?”

  Stanley Weingarten nods his head. That’s their entire relationship. Mrs. Weingarten talks and Mr. Weingarten nods. Maybe that’s the secret to staying married. If my father had nodded more, things would have worked out.

  “Sanskrit, will we see you at Pesach this year?” Mrs. Weingarten says.

  “Of course,” I say. Usually, we’d be scarce on a big holiday like Passover, but the Family Education Contract means we need to make a show of it. I still haven’t told Mom she’s going to the Weingartens’ seder next week. It’s their once-yearly attempt to bring us back into the fold. I’ve learned you don’t bring Mom bad news during a juice fast.

  “We’ll look forward to seeing you,” Mrs. Weingarten says.

  I reach for my pocket like my phone is vibrating. “I think that’s my mom now. Will you excuse me?” I say.

  I walk away, checking my phone f
or the twenty-seventh time.

  Not even a text.

  I dial Mom again, and it goes directly to voice mail. Which means her phone still isn’t on.

  I start to feel angry. My mother knows how important this is. I’ve reminded her enough times.

  Somehow she never misses a yoga class, either taking one or teaching one. But all other appointments are considered optional. Including mine. Which means I’m as forgettable as everyone else in Mom’s life.

  I check the time and see that Mom is now an hour and a half late.

  Time for emergency action.

  I call my little sister, Sweet Caroline. That’s actually her name. Our parents had a deal that Mom got to name the first child, Dad the second. They each named us after their favorite things—Mom an ancient language and Dad an ancient Neil Diamond song.

  Sanskrit and Sweet Caroline Zuckerman.

  The seeds of divorce were planted early in our family.

  “What do you want?” Sweet Caroline says when she answers the phone.

  She doesn’t even bother to say hello. That’s how sweet she is.

  “Where’s Mom?” I say.

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “Watch your mouth.”

  “Right. Like you never swear.”

  “Caroline, please.”

  “Sweet,” she says.

  She hates it when I don’t say her whole name. Unlike me, she’s taken ownership of her name. She says it’s cool to have a weird name in Los Angeles. It makes her feel like the daughter of famous actors.

  “Caroline,” I say again, because I’m angry, and maybe I want to take it out on her a little. That’s what sisters are for.

  “My name is Sweet Caroline,” she says, “not just Caroline.”

  “It’s not like you went to Sweet School and earned the title,” I say.

  “My father gave me this name and it’s the name I will be called,” she demands.

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Fine,” she says.

  And she hangs up.

  Jesus.

  I dial her number again.

  “What?” she says as if we didn’t just talk.

  “Hi, Sweet Caroline.”

  A pause.

  “How can I help you?”

  “Do you by any chance know where our mother is?” I say.