Since You Left Me Page 7

  “I’ll take care of it,” Mom says.

  I’m a little surprised. This is a Mom I don’t know, the strong and in-charge one who only appears at work.

  “Don’t go in there alone,” one of the ladies says.

  “We’ll go with you, Rebekah,” another one says.

  A group of about ten of us edge our way down the hall. More ladies come out of the other yoga studio and join us.

  “He was in here?” Mom says. She points towards the men’s room.

  “Right in there.”

  “How did he get past reception? Where’s Crystal?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Do we need a weapon?” one of the women says. She’s a young Asian woman, I think her name is Sally. She grabs a rolled-up yoga mat from the rack and grips it like a baseball bat. It seems an ineffective choice given the situation, but I’m thinking the homeless man can’t overpower me and two dozen pregnant women. He’s probably going to back down and run out of the place. But you never know.

  “Maybe we should call the police, Mom.”

  “We don’t need the police. We can take care of this. People are people, Sanskrit.”

  That’s when I realize Mom isn’t in charge; she’s naïve. People are not people. People are dangerous. Not everyone takes deep breaths and eats organic. Some of them bring bombs onto buses in Jerusalem or stand you up at your parent-professor conference. Not that those two things are equal, but you know …

  We approach the bathroom door with Mom leading us forward. She reaches out to open it, when it suddenly swings open on its own.

  The ladies scream.

  The homeless man steps out. He looks a little less homeless in the daylight. His hair is too long, his beard unkempt and scraggly. He’s wrapped in bright blue fabric that hangs all the way to the floor.

  He looks up, surprised at the army of pregnant women glaring at him.

  “That’s him,” I say.

  Mom gasps.

  “Guru Bharat,” she says. “You’re here!”

  “Namaste.”

  That’s what this guy says to my mother. Namaste. The god in me recognizes the god in you. He presses his hands together at chest level.

  “Namaste,” Mom says, returning the greeting.

  “My dearest Rebekah,” the guru says.

  I can hear his accent now. It’s that light British accent you hear in people who go to British schools in foreign countries.

  “I am most honored to be in your presence,” he says. He bows from the waist and stays there, his head towards the ground.

  “Guru!” Mom says, and she falls to her knees.

  The ladies follow her lead. Women are dropping like flies all around me. The really pregnant ones have to struggle their way down. The less pregnant women just plop.

  I’m the only one still standing. The guru comes out of his bow, and we’re looking at each other face to face.

  I feel a tug at my pant leg.

  “Down,” Mom whispers.

  “No.”

  “Bow down.”

  “Jews don’t bow down, Mom. We have a long history of not bowing down.”

  Mom is persistent. It’s not like I can kick her, but I shuffle my leg around to try and get her hand off of me.

  “Sanskrit, please!” Mom says, still tugging at me.

  “Sanskrit?” the guru says.

  Finally, somebody who can pronounce my name correctly.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” the guru says. “You have? From who?”

  “From your mother. We spoke on the computer. What do you call it?”

  “Chatting?”

  “Yes. We chatted. She’s very proud of you.”

  “She is?” I say.

  “Enough, ladies. Get up, please,” the guru says.

  The women rise as the guru walks over and stands in front of Mom.

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” she says.

  “I’m here,” he says, and smiles at her.

  “May I—” she says, and holds out her arms.

  “Please do,” he says, and they embrace, a long, tight embrace, so intense that Mom all but disappears into his robes.

  It goes on for way too long, to the point where the ladies and I are standing around, looking at one another uncomfortably.

  “What the hell, Mom,” I say.

  She emerges from his robes, her face glowing.

  “Thank you,” she says to him.

  “No, thank you. It’s not often I get to hug a beautiful yogini.”

  I clear my throat loudly.

  “I’m sorry I scared your son earlier,” the guru says.

  “You didn’t scare me,” I say. “Why did you run from me?”

  I want to tell him that we keep the stall door closed in America, especially when we look like crazy homeless men, but I glance at Mom and decide it would be better to keep that to myself.

  Mom says, “We’re all surprised that you’re here, Guru Bharat. You honor us with your visit.”

  “No, no. It’s my honor to be at your center,” he says, like he’s at the center of the world rather than the yoga center next to a waxing salon in Brentwood.

  “May I show you around?” Mom says.

  “That would be most gracious of you,” the guru says.

  “What about the prenatal class?” I say. My being here for the class was important to Mom. Or so she said.

  “The guru came all the way from India,” Mom says. “I’m sure the ladies—”

  “We don’t mind,” one of the pregnant ladies says.

  “We don’t,” another one says. “Of course not.”

  I say, “I just think when you make a commitment, you should keep your commitment.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Mom says.

  “I came here to help you. I could have been in school right now.”

  “Since when do you want to be in school?”

  “Since I’d like to get into college, Mom. If that’s okay with you.”

  “You’re only a junior,” Mom says. “You’ve got another year.”

  “It’s Jewish school, Mom. We’re worrying about college from day one.”

  “I’m sorry, guru,” Mom says. “I don’t think Sanskrit understands that we have the founder of a religious order in our midst.”

  “It’s not a religious order,” the guru says.

  “What is it?” Mom says.

  “It’s nothing,” the guru says.

  He smiles and claps his hands, delighted with himself.

  “How can it be nothing?” Sally says.

  “The Buddha called it sunyata. Emptiness. There is no essential nature to things. We give them meaning, when they deserve none.”

  “That’s upbeat,” I say.

  Mom throws me a look. “We want to learn all about it, guru,” she says. “Just give me a minute to speak to my son.”

  Mom grabs me and pulls me into a yoga studio.

  “Don’t ruin this for me!”

  That’s what Mom says after she closes the door.

  “Who the hell is this guy? Why haven’t I heard anything about him?”

  “First of all, this is my private life,” Mom says. “I don’t have to tell you everything I do.”

  “How private could it be? The whole yoga center knows.”

  “They don’t know the details.”

  “What are the details? You have a creepy international boyfriend?”

  “He’s not my boyfr—you are so frustrating to me right now.”

  Mom stamps her foot on the ground. She’s about to say something when she stops herself. Instead, she takes a yoga breath and closes her eyes.

  “I’m not a kid,” I say. “Why don’t you just tell me the truth.”

  Mom exhales.

  “The truth is this man is a very famous teacher from India who happens to be a new friend of mine. More than a friend. An inspiration.”

  “What’s his name again?”

  “
Guru Bharat.”

  “Bharat?”

  “It’s a Hindu name for India.”

  “He named himself after a country? That’s pretty arrogant.”

  Maybe I shouldn’t be so critical because I’m named after a language. But that’s Mom’s fault, not mine. What if I changed my name to United States? U. S. Zuckerman. It sounds like a Jewish battleship.

  “He didn’t name himself,” Mom says. “The name was bestowed on him. It’s a great honor.”

  “How did you meet this person?”

  “We met online after I saw his YouTube videos.”

  “YouTube is not a spiritual place, Mom. It’s more like a place where cats play the piano.”

  “That’s not true, honey. He has an amazing YouTube channel, and when I saw him, I knew he had a message for me. For my life. I wrote to him, and he wrote back. We’ve been e-mailing for a few months. Isn’t that incredible? And now he’s here!”

  “What does he want?”

  “You’re being paranoid.”

  “I’m not paranoid. I’m appropriately cautious.”

  Dad taught me that people always want something from you, even when they pretend they don’t. Especially when they pretend they don’t.

  “If you must know, he’s fascinated by American spirituality. I think he’s come to see it for himself.”

  “Not to see you?”

  Mom blushes.

  “Now I understand,” Mom says, and messes with my bangs. “You’re being overprotective. It’s sweet.”

  “I’m just saying you need to be careful. You don’t really know this guy.”

  “What do you say we get to know him?” Mom says. “We can show him around the Center together.”

  “You go,” I say. “I already met him in the bathroom. And I was less than impressed.”

  “Is that what a guru looks like?”

  This is what I ask Crystal, the receptionist. I’m shy about talking to her because she wears halter tops that barely cover her chest and she’s in a Ph.D. program at UCLA. Between her breasts and her brains I usually can’t form English sentences around her. But she’s the only one not chasing the guru around the Center right now.

  “All gurus look different,” she says, “but that is the one and only Guru Bharat.”

  “They don’t have combs in India?”

  “He’s famous for his hair. It’s been growing for more than a decade. Ever since he made his famous pronouncement.”

  “What pronouncement?”

  “That nothing matters.”

  “And?”

  “That’s the whole pronouncement,” she says.

  “Nothing matters. That’s his great spiritual contribution?”

  “It’s not as simple as that. He’s taking Buddhist principles and updating them so we can understand.”

  “In other words, he’s dumbing it down.”

  She crosses her arms, and the top shifts.

  “You should go on YouTube and check it out. You’re a spiritual guy. I think you’d be into it.”

  “I’m not a spiritual guy. I hate most religious stuff.”

  “So does he. You actually have a lot in common. You know how religious people are always preaching to us, telling us how we should act? Guru Bharat turned that on its head. He had the courage to tell the truth. Nothing that we do matters. Nothing changes anything. There is no way to be good.”

  “If nothing matters, what use is any of it?”

  “Don’t get angry with me; I didn’t say it. It’s the guru.”

  “How do you know all this?” I say.

  “Your mom’s been talking about him forever.”

  “How long is forever?”

  “A few months at least. I can’t believe he really came to Brentwood!”

  The group comes walking around the corner, a buzz of nearly nude women around a tumble of sheets with a beard. Mom is saying, “If we knew you were coming, we could have welcomed you properly.”

  “This is welcome aplenty,” the guru says.

  Who says aplenty? It’s ridiculous.

  “We would have honored you with a feast,” Mom says.

  “We can take him to dinner,” Sally says.

  “We can go for Indian food!” one of the women says.

  “Do you want to go for Indian food, Guru Bharat?” Sally says.

  “To be honest, I’m rather tired of Indian food.”

  “Of course you are,” Mom says. “We’ll take you for vegetarian food, American-style. Let’s go to A Votre Sante.”

  A Votre Sante. That’s Mom’s favorite restaurant. She took me there the last time we went to dinner together.

  “I’m breaking a juice fast tonight,” Mom says, “and I want it to be special.”

  The women head towards the changing room to get ready, and I edge over to Mom.

  “You said that we were going to break your fast together,” I say.

  Mom looks towards the guru.

  “I’ll take you to dinner a different night,” she says.

  “You promised tonight.”

  She sighs, frustrated. I notice she’s frustrated with me a lot lately.

  “Why don’t you come with us?” Mom says.

  “That’s not the same thing.”

  “I think you’re being selfish,” Mom says. “Why can’t you help me? Why does everything have to be a fight?”

  “It’s not a fight—” I start to say, but I stop myself. Because if I disagree with Mom, then it is a fight. At least in her mind. Anything short of total agreement is a fight.

  She doesn’t want a son; she wants a follower. No wonder she likes the guru.

  “Forget it,” I say.

  “No. Not forget it,” Mom says. “I made you a promise, and I’d like to keep that promise at a later date if it’s alright with you.”

  “It’s not alright with me.”

  She glances over her shoulder at the guru.

  “I don’t understand you, Sanskrit. What if Jesus came to visit? Would you leave him to fend for himself at dinnertime?”

  “We’re Jews. We don’t believe in Jesus.”

  “You’re a Jew,” she says. “Not me.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  It’s one thing to feel like you’re not a Jew, but it’s something else to say it out loud like that.

  “If you don’t want to hear the truth,” Mom says, “that’s your issue, not mine.”

  “Let’s drop the subject,” I say. “I’ll get dinner with Sweet Caroline and do my homework.”

  Mom exhales, relieved. She puts her arm on my shoulder.

  “I like when you kids do things together,” she says.

  “I know you do,” I say.

  Mom reaches into her pocket and comes out with a twenty. That’s one of her best parenting tricks. Folded twenties. Unfortunately, they only arrive for necessities like food. We never get one to have fun or buy something crazy.

  Unless Dad is around, that is. Then she likes to whip them out just to show Dad what a loser he is. Zadie wanted Dad to work for him in the terry business, but Dad refused and tried to start his own business, thereby dooming us to a life of poverty and handouts. That’s how Mom tells the story, and she’s never forgiven him for it.

  Mom looks towards the guru now and makes a big point of handing over the money.

  I’m a good mother, guru. Look at me taking care of my family.

  I want to throw the money on the floor and stamp on it, but to be honest, I’m hungry and that would be counterproductive. I smile like I’m a good son and she’s a good mother.

  “Take care of your sister,” she says. As if Sweet Caroline and I are close. Now who doesn’t want to hear the truth?

  “Thanks, Mom!” My voice is cheerful, too loud. I’m trapped in a movie I don’t want to be a part of.

  Mom tussles my hair, then walks back towards the guru.

  “Have fun, you two!” I say, and I wave good-bye.

  The guru is watching me, his face placid
. I move, and his eyes follow.

  I stare back at him, and he smiles.

  It’s a kind smile, but it reminds me a little of Barry Goldwasser. A smile for no reason, so you don’t know if the person likes you or if they’re making fun of you.

  “I’m worried about you.”

  That’s what Talya Stein’s mother says when she sees me. I walk out of the Center, and she’s right there on San Vicente getting into a Lexus. I’m so surprised, I almost run away.

  “How is your mother?” she says.

  “Touch and go.”

  “Oh my God,” she says.

  I gesture back towards the Center. “I was just taking care of a few things for her.”

  What if Mom walks out of the Center right now? I have to get rid of Mrs. Stein fast.

  “We’re all with you,” she says. “You know that.”

  I know that her daughter, Talya Stein, wears tight, long-sleeved sweaters and has barely spoken to me in three years. I know she’s best friends with The Initials. That’s all I know.

  “I have to go,” I say.

  “Of course. Shabbat is starting soon,” she says. “Do you have dinner plans, Aaron?”

  I think about sitting at a dinner table with Talya Stein. Maybe we’d hit it off, and that would connect me back to The Initials. But probably not. She’d probably hate me for being in her house, only she’d pretend to like me because I’m going through a family tragedy. I can’t take something like that tonight.

  “I’m going to the hospital with my sister,” I tell Mrs. Stein.

  “If you change your mind,” she says.

  I thank her and walk away fast.

  I glance over my shoulder and I’m relieved to see her driving away.

  I’m safe for now, but the clock is ticking on this lie. Somebody is going to see Mom, and I’ll have serious explaining to do.

  Maybe they’ll even see her at A Votre Sante tonight, and the whole story will blow up. That might be a relief.

  I hurry down San Vicente to Barrington, then I turn south and cross over Wilshire where Brentwood becomes West L.A., and the expensive houses become little houses and so-so apartments. West L.A. is on the doorstep to Brentwood, but it’s a whole other world. A cheaper world. The real world. Or at least our version of it.