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.
“Don’t lie to him,” the guru says.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Mom says.
“Don’t lie to me, Mom,” I say.
Mom gives the guru an angry look. The same kind she used to give Dad.
“Fine. You want the truth?” Mom says. “I wanted you two to have a chance to get to know each other, so you would like each other.”
“Why do we need to like each other?” I say.
Mom and the guru share a look. Mom nods to him.
“Your mother and I started a relationship as friends—” the guru says.
“I don’t want to hear this,” I say.
“—but something has happened between us,” he says. “Something beautiful.”
Mom’s hand slides down his forearm to his fingers. They intertwine.
I stand up and throw my napkin on the table.
“You set me up,” I say to Mom.
“Please, Sanskrit. We’re trying to share good news with you,” Mom says.
“What’s good about it?” I say. I fling down my fork, and a chunk of tofu meat goes flying.
I storm out to the sound of Mom apologizing—not to me—to the guru.
I’m going away
.
That’s what I think as I walk around the neighborhood. I can handle this because I’m going away soon. One more year, really a year and a half, and then I’ll be at Brandeis. Away from this place, away from Brentwood, away from my crazy family.
Away from Mom.
The thought upsets me, and then I get angry at myself for being upset. What kind of a baby is afraid to leave his mother? Kids are supposed to want to leave home, especially homes like mine.
I try to imagine myself all the way on the other side of the country at Brandeis. I wonder if Mom will miss me. I wonder if she’ll think of me at all.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Just like God.
All of Judaism is based on remembering God, reaching out to him, asking for his help. Reminding ourselves of him at every moment.
Why do we have to do all that work?
Because God’s not here in the first place.
If God were here, there would be no need for religion. We wouldn’t have to remember him or honor him. We’d come out of our houses in the morning, and God would be sitting on a cloud with a lightning bolt in one hand and a Starbucks in the other.
You’d say, “Good morning, God. How did I do yesterday?”
If you were good, you’d get the Starbucks. If you were bad—
You’d get the guru.
I walk a big circle in the neighborhood around the restaurant. By the time I head back, Mom’s car isn’t in the parking lot anymore. I’m thinking that maybe she left, when a horn beeps.
Mom pulls up, her tire scraping the curb. The guru is sitting next to her in front.
“We’re going home,” Mom says through her open window.
“Who’s we?”
“You and I. We’ll drop off Guru Bharat first.”
“Good,” I say. And I get in the car.
“You’re awfully quiet.”
We’re sitting at a stoplight after dropping off the guru. I’m in the backseat, and I haven’t said a word.
“I’m trying to communicate with you like Sweet Caroline’s psychologist said I should,” Mom says.
The light turns green. There’s a beep behind us.
“Sanskrit,” Mom says. “Nobody can plan for love. It’s mysterious.”
Another beep.
If I open my mouth, I’ll say something terrible, so I keep it closed. I feel the anger churning in my stomach, a cement mixer filled with fake beef products.
“Sanskrit,” Mom says.
A long horn blast.
Mom steps on the gas, and we’re moving again.
“I give up,” she says.
Me, too
, I think.
When we get home, Mom pulls into the driveway but doesn’t open the garage door.