Allen Zadoff: Since You Left Me

I say, “I’ve got a lot going on right now.”

She backs off a bit.

“Of course you have. I’m sorry to yell at you, Sanskrit. Let’s just get you in there.”

She starts walking, and I hurry along next to her.

“I have to tell you something,” I say.

“Could you tell me on the way?”

“Would you just stop for a second?”

She pauses, confused.

“What is it? Are you nervous about the event?”

“I’m in love with you,” I say.

It pops out of me. Sometimes when you have nothing to lose, you do things you wouldn’t imagine doing any other time.

“What did you just say?”

“I’ve always loved you. Ever since that spelling bee in second grade.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“I know you have a boyfriend and you’re, like—on a whole different social strata than me.”

“That’s not true,” she says. “I don’t have any friends.”

“What about The Rabbi?”

“Herschel? He used to be my friend. Not really now.”

A cheer echoes from the gymnasium and bounces down the hall.

“They’re all cheering for you,” The Initials says. “What do you call that?”

“They’re cheering because my mother got hit by a car.”

“Good point,” she says.

“Just forget it. Forget I said anything. I needed to get it off my chest. I’ll bury it again, and we can go back to being acquaintances tomorrow.”

“But I want to talk to you about it, Sanskrit.”

“You do?”

“I want to ask you about second grade. Just not now.”

Suddenly, I feel happy. More than happy. Hopeful. Maybe I’ve lost everything but gained back The Initials.

Wait. Not The Initials.

“Judi,” I say.

“Yes?”

“Maybe we can go out after the fund-raiser and talk about everything?”

“After,” she says. “Definitely.”

Rabbi Silberstein pauses, looking out at the audience in the gymnasium.

“We do not have an answer. We cannot know the mind of God. We only know that suffering is visited on some more than others. In this matter, the Zuckerman family has had more than their fair share. Theirs is a story of suffering… and survival.”

He doesn’t say it directly, but everyone knows he’s talking about Zadie. It’s not like I’m the only grandchild of a survivor in the school. There are a few of us, and everyone knows who we are.

“Now this family is going through another trial,” he says. “And we as a community are called to action.”

Applause spreads through the gymnasium. I look around and see that practically the whole school is here. The professors, the head of school, the dean, and all the students. Tyler stands in the front row with tears in his eyes, clapping his hands.

Everyone is here except Herschel. It looks like my old friend has boycotted my fund-raiser. He’s the only one who knows the truth, so I can’t say I’m surprised.

“We do not act out of goodness,” Rabbi Silberstein says, “though we may indeed be good. We act because it is our duty. As we celebrate the Passover holiday this year and remember how God brought our people out of bondage in Egypt, we will remember, too, the debt we owe to him for this gift. It is our responsibility to act in the lives of others. We are the hands of HaShem in this world. This is the essence of tzedakah . You, the young people in our community, are practicing it today. And I’m proud of you.”

Another long round of applause.

Judi waves her hand in the air, getting the dean’s attention. He motions us over.

The dean steps up to the podium and says, “Thank you, Rabbi Silberstein, for that inspiring call to action. Speaking of calls, our annual building fund drive is coming up after Pesach, and your phones are going to ring—”

The students groan.

“I admit, it was a bad segue,” the dean says. “But it’s my job to remind you.”

The students laugh.

“It’s good to laugh at times like these,” he says. “But now let’s turn our attention to the serious matter at hand. It’s time for me to introduce the real hero of the evening, Aaron Zuckerman.”

Judi hooks her arm in mine and walks me to the microphone.

“I’ve had the opportunity to spend some time with Sanskrit over the last few days,” she says to the crowd. She smiles at me. “To be honest, we hadn’t spoken much in the last few years. It’s strange how that happens. You can be so close to someone yet drift away from them. Childhood friends become strangers, best friends become acquaintances. We lose touch with each other, even when—when it may not be what we intended.”

She looks me in the eye.

She says, “How sad that it took something like this to bring us back together.”

My chest gets tight. This is what she wants to talk to me about after the event. Getting back together. She’s giving me a preview in front of the whole school.

I look over at Barry Goldwasser, and I laugh to myself. Why was I so worried about him? He’s nothing, insubstantial. I thought he was standing in the way, but it turns out he’s not in the way at all.

Maybe that week in second grade wasn’t the end of my love life but the beginning, like an appetizer that happened long before the meal. And now the rest of high school is going to be the meal of a lifetime.

Judi finishes and steps away from the microphone.

I hesitate.

I just have to get through this event, then Judi and I will be together. That’s what I tell myself.

I step up to the podium.

“I am the grandson of a survivor,” I say.

The crowd goes silent. I don’t talk about this in school because I don’t want people to ask me about it. It’s one of those things that gives you instant credibility, but a lot of responsibility, too. You’re not just Jewish. You are one of the miracles. Why did your family survive when so many did not? It’s not enough that you’re alive; you have to do something to prove that you’re worth it.

It’s a lot of pressure, and I don’t want it. Not usually, at least.

But tonight I don’t care. I tell everyone who I am, not because I’m proud of it or even because I’m humbled. I tell them because I want them to feel bad for me.

“My family has had many trials,” I say. “But I’m no different than any of you. We all have trials. I don’t know why God has chosen me for this test so young. It’s hard to think of yourself as lucky in this sort of situation. But I have to look for the spiritual in it, in all things.”

I’m so full of crap, I can’t believe it. The rabbi is smiling and nodding, urging me on. I can see he’s surprised, too. He probably thinks I’ve had some kind of conversion. I almost think so myself.

So I keep going.

I’m listening to myself speak, but I have no idea what I’m saying. I’m parroting Herschel, the Bible, Moses, some lecture I vaguely remember from Hebrew school when I was ten. It’s a performance par excellence, and all during it, I’m waiting for HaShem to strike me down, send a lightning bolt, cut the power, do something to put an end to it. If there were a God, he would surely stop me.

But nothing happens.

I finish to rousing applause. The dean steps up and hugs me in front of the whole school. He waits for the crowd to quiet down, and then he says, “Could you tell us a little about your mom’s condition? None of us have been able to see her, and it would help us to know.”

He steps away from the podium, and I burst into tears.

The dean is shocked. He puts his arm around me, which just makes me cry harder.

I don’t know why I’m crying. Maybe it’s because I’m such a liar. Maybe it’s because I’m really losing my mother, just not in the way people think, not in some noble and terrible way like a car accident, but in an embarrassing way via YouTube and yoga.