“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.
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.