Allen Zadoff: Since You Left Me

“I want to tell you about the prenatal class,” Mom says. “I finally get to share my maternal experience and my yoga training. Mommies and babies in a class, Sanskrit. How exciting is that?”

“If it’s prenatal, they’re not babies yet.”

“They’re still babies. They’re just interior babies.”

“There’s no such thing, Mom.”

“I don’t mean it literally. I mean life, Sanskrit. They are alive in there, and I can get them started on yoga at a critical time in their development.”

“They’ll be born doing Salute to the Placenta.”

“That’s funny, sweetie, but I’m serious about this. You can affect a child in a very positive way if you intervene early. I wish I’d known about yoga before you were born.”

Mom didn’t become a yoga freak until after the divorce. Does she think there’s something wrong with me that yoga would have made better?

“Is that your big news?” I say. “That’s why you missed my conference?”

“It’s only the first part,” she says, “and part two is the best part, because it’s about you.”

“What about me?”

“I need your help to teach the class.”

“I can’t teach yoga. I can’t even do yoga.”

“You don’t have to teach. I want the ladies to see us together, see how we interact as mother and son.”

“Why me? Why not Sweet Caroline?”

“Sweet Caroline hates yoga. Besides, she’s busy with her friends.”

“And I’m not?”

“You’ve got more free time. Anyway, I want the ladies to see what it’s like to have a boy.”

“What’s it like?”

“What kind of question is that?”

The weirder a conversation gets with Mom, the more she acts like everything she’s saying is obvious and you’re an idiot for not getting it.

“So you want me to help you teach a prenatal yoga class?”

“Not want. I need you,” Mom says. “I can’t do it without you.”

That makes me feel good, even if it is crazy.

“The first class is tomorrow afternoon. We could go to dinner after,” Mom says. “We can break my juice fast together.”

“Just you and me?”

“You, me, delicious food, and an adjacent bathroom.”

“Too much information,” I say, and Mom laughs.

I try to remember the last time Mom and I did something like that. I don’t come up with anything.

“Does that sound good?” Mom says.

“I’ll check my schedule. Yup, I’m free,” I say.

“Sanskrit,” she says, and she smiles.

Just my name and a smile. Nothing else.

I feel dizzy from it. Or maybe it’s the headstand.

I think about school and everything that happened earlier tonight. I try to feel how angry I was, but I can’t right now.

“I knew I could count on you,” Mom says. She effortlessly drops out of her headstand.

“Bathroom again,” she says, and she scurries off, her bare feet slapping on the wood floor.

I drop out of my headstand, and I get the spins. I close my eyes, get down on all fours like an animal.

I wait for the world to stop moving.

For a second I think it’s not going to happen, I’m going to be in permanent spin, a comet spiraling forever in the darkness of space.

Then my head slows, the nausea passes, and the room comes back to stillness.

I’m not lost in space. I’m in our living room without any chairs.

That’s what Herschel says a few minutes later when I call him from my room. I have to keep my voice down because Mom hates for me to use the cell phone when I’m in the house. She hates for me to use it at all. She’s afraid the radiation will affect my brain. For similar reasons, she won’t buy me a laptop because she doesn’t want me to put it on my lap in case I want to have kids in the future. It’s crazy.

“I was hoping the teachers would be discreet,” I say.

“They were discreet. They discreetly announced to everyone that you were in the midst of a major family crisis and could use the support of the community.”

“That’s discretion?”

“ Jewish discretion. Did you get a lot of calls after that?”

“Not as many as you would have gotten.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Come on, Herschel. The community loves you. What happened when you broke your foot?”

“People were very supportive, thank God.”

“You said you got two hundred calls.”

“More like a hundred. But this is not a competition.”

“Of course not.”

“How many did you get?” Herschel says.

“Eighteen.”

“Eighteen.” Herschel pauses, searching for the right thing to say. “That’s not insignificant.”

“It’s not a hundred.”

“It’s only one night, and only the junior class knows. Wait until tomorrow.”

I think about the entire school hearing the story of my mother’s accident.

Herschel says, “Not that there will be a tomorrow. You’re going to set the record straight, aren’t you?”

“I can’t. Mom doesn’t know what happened.”

Silence on the line.

“I tried to tell her. It’s just… It’s complicated, Herschel.”

“The longer this goes on, the worse it will be.”

I pace in my room, run my finger over the collection of Talmud on my shelf. My finger comes away covered in dust.

“What am I going to do?” I say.

“Are you asking me for advice?” Herschel says.

“Yes.”

“I won’t give it to you.”

“Don’t play this game now. I can’t take it.”

“No game. It’s not my job to tell you what to do,” Herschel says. “I’ve made that mistake before and I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Then give me spiritual counseling,” I say.

When Herschel tries to counsel me, I usually slap him down, remind him he’s not a rabbi but a seventeen-year-old kid who started wearing payis two years ago. But right now I keep quiet.

“The Torah teaches us that if you tell a lie, you become a liar,” Herschel says. “It’s a matter of character.”

“But there are extenuating circumstances. I mean, one lie in and of itself does not make me a liar, right?”

“If you commit one murder, you are a murderer. Why would a lie be any different?”

“Because nobody died from my lie.”

“Your soul died a little.”

“Oh, please.”

“You don’t think so?” Herschel says. “What if I had lied to the Nazis?”

“There are no Nazis.”

“But there were. Follow my logic.”

“Lied about what?” he says.

“Let’s say I was in Poland during the war, and the Nazis asked where my family was hiding, and I lied to them.”

“It’s still a lie,” Herschel says. “But I think God might forgive a lie that’s intended to save a life.”

“This is similar.”

“How so?”

“It’s a lie to save my college career.”

“College is not equivalent to a human life.”

“Brandeis is.”

“Very funny.”

“So you want me to tell the professors the truth? What about Yitzhak?”

Yitzhak was a visiting Israeli student who broke the Code of Conduct last year. He got expelled for plagiarism.

“They sent him all the way back to Tel Aviv,” I say.

“Actions have consequences,” Herschel says. “I know better than most.”

“Please. When have you ever been in trouble?”

Herschel clears his throat. “Don’t change the subject. We’re talking about you. And ethics.”

I groan. Where is the old Herschel who used to give advice? That’s what friends do for other friends. They tell you what you should do when you’re in a bind and can’t decide for yourself. But Herschel has become some sort of sage who speaks in abstractions and biblical verses. It’s frustrating.