After a while, I hear the sound of a key in the front door followed by Dad cursing.
“How the hell does this thing—”
He doesn’t know the lock is old and doesn’t work right. You have to turn the knob half a turn or the key won’t engage.
Finally, he gets it, and the door swings open and slams against the wall too hard. Mom hates it when we slam the door. I told her she should install a doorstop instead of yelling all the time, but she said it was our responsibility to take care of our home, not some piece of rubber’s.
Dad curses again and closes the door.
Sweet Caroline is snoring softly in the bed next to me.
I press her shoulder.
“Dad’s here,” I say.
“Okay,” she says.
But she doesn’t move.
“We should go,” I say.
“To Dad’s.”
“We can make it work.”
“We make it work two days a month, Sanskrit. I’m not naïve. I know it’s not a thirty days per month kind of experience.”
She’s right. But I don’t say it. I say, “Let’s go and find out.”
She rolls away from me.
“I’ve got everything on a list.
I just need to find the list.”
That’s what Dad says. He stands there patting his pockets while Sweet Caroline and I wait for him.
We’re in the living room surrounded by boxes.
“Everything we need to do is on the list,” Dad says. “The packing, the organizing, the whatchamacallits. I just need to remember where I put it.”
“Did you look in your back pockets?” Sweet Caroline says.
“I did,” Dad says.
“Did you check your sock?” I say. Another of Dad’s favorite hiding places.
“Let me think for a minute,” Dad says.
Sweet Caroline clenches my arm, her fingers digging in. I can feel her starting to panic.
“It will be okay,” I tell her.
Dad looks around the room, confused.
The doorbell rings, and the three of us jump.
Sweet Caroline looks at me hopefully.
Is it Mom? Did she change her mind?
I rush to the door. It’s Herschel.
“On my way to Shabbos services,” he says. “I know it’s a big day. I hope you don’t mind that I—”
“I’m glad you’re here,” I say.
“Good Shabbos,” he says, and gives me a big hug.
He pokes his head in the front door.
“Good Shabbos, Zuckerman family,” he says.
Dad gives him a wave. Sweet Caroline forces a smile.
“Shall we sit outside for a minute?” he says.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Dad.
I squat down on the front stoop. Herschel pulls a handkerchief from his suit pocket and brushes off the stairs so he won’t get his black pants dirty.
“Your mom?” Herschel says.
“She left a few minutes ago.”
“How are you doing?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He takes off his hat, fans his forehead with it.
“I was thinking a lot about you last night. Your situation,” he says.
“You mean school?”
“Not so much that. There are other schools. Other places to learn. You can always live a Jewish life. Nothing can prevent that if it’s what you want.”
“True,” I say. “If it’s what I want.”
“I was thinking more about your mother leaving.”
“What about her?”
“Did you ask her to stay?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?” Herschel says.
I think about that. I’ve tried all these way to manipulate Mom, change her mind, get her to see that we’re worth it. But did I ever ask her to stay?
What do you want? Mom said in the car yesterday.
But I didn’t answer. You shouldn’t have to ask your own mother to be a mother, should you?
“What does it matter now?” I say. “She left us. It’s too late.”
“It’s never too late,” Herschel says.
“What about God’s will?” I say. “If it’s God’s will for her to go, there’s nothing I can do to keep her here. You’ve said as much yourself.”
“Since when do you believe in God?” he says.
And then he smiles.
I glance through the open door behind me. Sweet Caroline is crying on the sofa while Dad rubs her back in little circles. He looks like he’s about to cry himself.
Maybe Herschel’s right. Maybe it isn’t too late.
I jump up.
“Dad! Start the car,” I shout.
“We have to pack your stuff first,” he says. “The list says—”
“Forget the list. We have to go now.”
Sweet Caroline looks at me like I’m crazy.
“Where are we going?” Dad says.
“We’re going to get Mom back,” I say.
Sweet Caroline leaps off the sofa.
“Let’s go!” she shouts.
We race to the car. Herschel follows us.
“What are you doing?” I say to him. “It’s Shabbat. You can’t be in a car.”
“I can if it’s life or death,” he says.
“Red lights are optional.”
That’s what Dad says as we shoot through the intersection accompanied by a chorus of honking horns.
“Careful, Daddy,” Sweet Caroline says.
Dad snorts and drives faster. He slides through stop signs, speeds up when he sees yellow lights, tailgates, and passes on the right. He gets us to the airport in record time. I’ve never been so grateful to have a maniac driver for a father.
He pulls up to the white loading area in front of the Tom Bradley International Terminal, and I’m out of the car before it even stops, Herschel and Sweet Caroline racing along behind me.
“I’ll catch up to you!” Dad shouts after us.
We’re heading for the security check-in when I realize we’re in trouble.
“Boarding passes, please,” the TSA agent says. He’s tall and serious, a fifty-year-old guy who looks like a presidential candidate, a great mane of white hair on top of his head.
“We don’t have boarding passes,” I say. “We’re trying to get to our mother before she leaves the country.”
The agent looks us over. I’m sweating through my T-shirt, Sweet Caroline is fidgeting next to me and marching in place, and Herschel is in full Jewish garb, nervously spinning his hat on his head. We’re like an airport security training poster.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t let you through.”
“We lost our mom,” Sweet Caroline says. She starts to cry. It’s gotten us through a lot of jams in the past.
Not this time.
“Rules and regulations,” the TSA agent says, holding up his hand in a stop gesture. “I’ll call it in. We’ll make an announcement so your mother will know where to find you.”
“You don’t understand,” Sweet Caroline says.
“We have to get through!” I say, a little too loudly, because the TSA agent stands up from his chair and fingers the radio on his shoulder.
“I need you to take a step back,” he says firmly.
His partner stops what he’s doing and stands up, too, bracing for trouble.
“We’re going to get arrested,” Sweet Caroline says, panic in her voice.
“Why would you be arrested?” the agent says. He reaches towards something on his belt. Restraining cuffs.
Saying you’re going to get arrested in an airport these days pretty much guarantees that it’s going to happen.
I look at Herschel. His eyes are closed and he’s praying.
“Not now,” I say, and I nudge him.
He holds up a finger for me to wait, his eyes still closed.
He finishes, then opens his eyes. He seems calmer. He says to the TSA agent, “Please, sir, may I have a word with you?”