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.
“I’m taking a drive,” she says.
Mom never takes drives. She’s too concerned with leaving a small carbon footprint. But tonight she leaves the car running and waits for me to get out. Then she pulls out of the driveway fast, narrowly missing our mailbox before disappearing into the night.
“Where’s Mom going?”
Sweet Caroline is standing inside the door when I get inside. I can tell she’s been watching through the front window.
“How do I know?” I say.
“She never drives at night.”
For all Mom’s spiritual work, she’s scared of a lot of things. Night driving, sugar, cell phones, the laser scanner at the grocery store, which she thinks can cause blindness despite the fact we have yet to meet a blind cashier.
“Did something happen at dinner?” Sweet Caroline says.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
I storm past her, heading for my room.
“Don’t blame me for your messed-up relationship,” she says.
“Screw you, Caroline,” I shout behind me.
“Sweet!” she shouts after me.
I slam my bedroom door closed. Then I open and slam it again. The wood shivers in the frame.
I hear an answering slam from down the hall. Then another. Then a third.
Jewish Morse code.
I pace around my room, making small, angry circles. I get angrier and angrier until I’m ready to explode. I pull out my journal.
I flip through it until I find my last entry.
I have to change my life.
That’s what it says.
I can check that one off the list. It’s changed for the worse.
I turn to a blank page. I write:
G-D
Then I cross it out. I write:
HASHEM
“You can always talk to HaShem,” Herschel once said. “He’s omnipresent.”
I said, “That’s like those reality shows where they have cameras everywhere, even in the bathroom. The ACLU should object to an omnipresent God.”
“Omnipresent means we have a constant companion. We’re never really alone because we have God beside us.”
I look at the word HaShem written on the page in front of me. I imagine him here with me in the room. I don’t believe it. I cross out his name. I write:
DEAR MOM,
I HATE YOU.
I tear that out of the journal and crunch it up. I toss it in the trash. Then I take it out and rip it into tiny pieces and throw those out.
I start a new page in the journal.
DEAR MOM,
I HAVE A LOT OF THINGS I WANT TO SAY TO YOU.
I HATE YOU.
THIS IS THE TRUTH.
I HATE YOU MORE THAN ANYTHING. I HOPE YOU GET INTO A CAR ACCIDENT TONIGHT WHILE YOU’RE DRIVING WHEREVER YOU’RE DRIVING. IF YOU EVER READ THIS, YOU’RE PROBABLY GOING TO SAY, OH, HE JUST SAID THAT BECAUSE HE WAS ANGRY.
BUT IT’S NOT BECAUSE I’M ANGRY. IT’S BECAUSE IT’S TRUE.
I DON’T CARE IF YOU NEVER COME HOME AGAIN.
IT WOULD BE EASIER ON ME. BECAUSE IF YOU GOT INTO AN ACCIDENT, I WOULD KNOW I’D LOST YOU AND I WOULDN’T EXPECT ANYTHING FROM YOU. IT’S NOT LIKE YOU CAN WANT STUFF FROM DEAD PEOPLE. AND EVERYONE AT SCHOOL WILL MOURN WITH ME FOR REAL, AND I WON’T HAVE TO ADMIT I’M A LIAR.
BUT UNFORTUNATELY YOU’RE ALIVE, AND ALL YOU DO IS HURT ME.
YOU INVITED ME TO DINNER TONIGHT. I THOUGHT IT WAS ABOUT YOU AND ME, AND IT TURNS OUT IT WAS ALL A SETUP. IT WAS REALLY JUST A DINNER FOR YOU TO BE CLOSER TO YOUR GURU. OR FOR YOU TO TRY TO MAKE ME LOVE YOUR GURU LIKE YOU DO, AND THAT’S BULLSHIT. YOU CAN’T TRICK PEOPLE LIKE THAT. YOU CAN’T TRICK YOUR SON.
I’m so angry as I write this, I want to break the pen and stab it into something.
I bend the pen until it’s on the brink of snapping, but I stop before it does. I go back to the page.
I DON’T WANT YOU TO BE MY MOTHER ANYMORE. YOU’RE NOT GOOD AT IT. YOU’RE GOOD AT OTHER THINGS, BUT NOT AT THIS. YOU’RE A GOOD YOGA TEACHER, FOR INSTANCE. I GIVE YOU THAT MUCH. YOU’RE GOOD AT TEACHING YOGA, AND I’M SORRY I’M NOT GOOD AT LEARNING IT BECAUSE YOU’VE TRIED TO HELP ME AND I KNOW I’VE LET YOU DOWN. BUT I DON’T WANT YOU TO THINK YOU’RE A BAD TEACHER BECAUSE I’M NOT ABLE TO DO ADVANCED MOVES.
I’M JUST SAYING THERE ARE THINGS THAT WE EXCEL AT AND THINGS THAT WE DON’T.
YOU DON’T EXCEL AT BEING MY MOTHER.
I’m afraid to write this. It’s hard to tell the truth about how I feel, even when it’s just on paper. I decide I’m going to write the letter, then throw it out. I’m never giving it to Mom. I’ll write it and destroy it. That’s what a journal is, right? It’s a private place for me to have my feelings. So I’m going to say what I have to say. I’m going to let it all out.