“Who raised you?”
“I was taken in by—I think you call it an orphanage.”
“I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”
“It’s nothing to be sorry about. These are the cards—What’s the expression?”
“The cards you were dealt.”
“Yes,” the guru says.
“They’re bad cards.”
“I don’t believe in bad or good cards.”
“You’re not Jewish. We’ve had a lot of bad cards in our history.”
“My people have suffered as well. All people suffer. This is the first noble truth.”
“Why make it worse by taking our mother?”
The guru takes a long breath and pulls his ankles in tighter. I cross my legs like him.
“Your mother and I have something special together. A bond that goes back in time.”
“By time you mean February?”
“I mean a previous life.”
“Oh, please,” I say.
“You may not believe in such things, but I do.”
“I think you’ve confused her. Maybe even brainwashed her.”
“Your mother is making a choice. Just as you can make a choice.”
“What is my choice?” I say.
“To come with us.”
“To India?”
I laugh.
I wait for him to tell me it’s a joke, but he doesn’t. He slowly uncrosses his legs and recrosses them in opposite order, looking at me calmly the whole time.
“I’m inviting you,” the guru says, “now that I see you could benefit from it.”
“That’s crazy,” I say.
“Is it?”
“How could I benefit from going to India?”
“You are a spiritual seeker.”
“I’m not a spiritual seeker. I’m a—whatever you call the opposite of that. I don’t believe in anything. I’m supposed to, but I don’t.”
The faint sound of a gong chimes far down the hall. A yoga class is beginning in the big studio.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”
How dare I not believe when Zadie survived the camps? When I owe my whole existence to that fact? I wait for something terrible to happen, for an artery to explode in my head or an earthquake to shake the ground out from under me.
Nothing happens, just a second gong tone from down the hall.
“I’m supposed to believe,” I say. “I was born Jewish. I go to Jewish school. My grandfather—he left money so I’d be Jewish.”
“You cannot pay someone to be as you wish them to be.”
“That’s what I told my parents. But it was his final gift.”
“A gift that has become a burden.”
I never thought of it like that. A gift from Zadie’s perspective could be a burden from mine. God’s gift to Zadie was a burden, too. God gave him his life, and Zadie was obsessed with being a success, like he had to prove he was worthy of it.
“Maybe it’s time to lay down the burden,” the guru says.
He says it like it’s simple, but how do you do it? What does it even mean? Do I leave school? Do I stop being Jewish?
“You’re asking many questions in your head,” the guru says.
“Maybe.”
“May I make a suggestion?”
I nod.
“Don’t try to answer these questions,” the guru says. “Let them remain questions for the time being.”
“How can I not answer them?” I say.
“Because it’s enough just to ask them,” he says.
“But why ask if you’re not going to look for an answer?”
“I’m open to an answer if it comes, but I’m not actively looking for one. It’s a different way of approaching it. I don’t try to figure it out. I simply get comfortable holding the questions.”
I ask a question in my head:
Why is my mom so screwed up?
I try to do what the guru said and not answer it, but it’s impossible. My head fills with reasons.
“Sanskrit.”
The guru says my name. It snaps me out of it.
“You have to practice this technique,” he says. “Don’t expect to get it immediately.”
I look across at him. We’re both sitting far apart on the floor, but it feels like we’re closer, like I could reach out and touch him.
“Come to India with your mother and I.”
“What would I do in India?”
“Grow.”
“I can grow here.”
“True,” the guru says. “But in India you might grow in a new way.”
“What about school?”
“We have many schools in India. It would be your choice which one to attend.”
“I wouldn’t have Zadie’s tuition money. Once I leave Jewish school, the money goes away. No second chances.”
“You wouldn’t need it there. We could get you into a private school that is affordable.”
I stand up.
“I don’t know what to say, guru.”
“Don’t say anything. Sit with the idea for a while. But it has to be your own choice. I would never tell you to leave school. Or your religion, for that matter. Sometimes, we return to the religion of our birth and find solace there. Other times, we must find the strength to rebel against it. Every journey is different.”
“I don’t know what my journey is,” I say.
“How could you?” he says. “You’re in the middle of it.”
“You have no idea where you’re going, do you?”
That’s what the woman in Starbucks says.
They’ve renovated since I was here last, and I was in the pickup line instead of the ordering line.
“Sorry,” I say, and I slip in behind her.
She grunts and turns her back to me. She stretches a little, then bends over to tie her sneaker. She’s wearing black yoga pants with blue stripes on the thighs that come to a V in her private place. It reminds me of lights on a runway. I hate her, but I wish I were a pilot at the same time.
“Wait. I recognize you,” the woman says.
She spins around, catching me looking at her butt. I quickly look up.
“The Center. Your mom is a teacher, right? I’m Sally.”
“Hey, Sally,” I say. She’s the Asian woman who was ready to attack the guru with a yoga mat last week.
“Your mom is the luckiest woman in the world.”
“She is?”
“If I had a guru interested in me? Wow. That’s like dating God.”
“He’s not a god,” I say. “He’s just like you and me.”
“Who says?”
“He says.”
“Of course he does. If he was God, he wouldn’t go around saying he was God. Only crazy people do that.”
“Can I help the next guest,” the barista says.
“Your mom is starting a whole new life,” Sally says. “It’s so exciting.”
She goes to the counter, and the entire line moves up one step.
Mom’s new life. Or our new life.
It’s up to me. At least according to the guru.
I think about leaving Jewish school. Going in for my last day. Saying good-bye to everyone. The CORE boys would walk by, and I’d say, “Hey, I won’t be around for Passover this year. I’m going to India.”
They wouldn’t believe it.
“Next guest,” the barista says.
I usually order a mocha latte if Mom isn’t around, a decaf organic soy fair trade latte if she’s watching. She hates that I like coffee, but I can drink it in front of her as long as I transform it into something politically correct that tastes bad.
“What can we get you today?” the barista says. She’s got on a starchy Starbucks apron and a hat adorned with multiple pins.
I say, “Do you have anything Indian?”
“You mean Native American. We don’t say Indian anymore.”
“We do if we mean something from India.”
“Oh. Well, that’s okay to say. But I don’t think we have coffee from India.”
“Do you have anything?”