This is how Dr. Prem’s office manager greets us when we walk in. What family is she talking about? Calling us a family is like calling an asteroid a planet. It’s not a planet. It’s part of a planet. The shattered remains of a planet, thrust out of its orbit and shooting through space.
She doesn’t care. She’s just happy to see us.
“Zuckerman family, reporting for quackery,” Dad says, and he salutes.
“Cut it out, Dad,” I say.
It takes guts to walk into a doctor’s office and call them quacks. It’s sort of stupid, too. You don’t want to piss off your doctor before he works on you. Especially a chiropractor. What if instead of an adjustment, he decides to snap your neck like James Bond? If anyone knows how to do that, it’s a chiropractor.
“I’m sorry,” Dad says. “I thought you hated it here.”
“I don’t hate it,” I say, even though I do. “And keep your voice down.”
I glance at the office manager.
“Whatever,” Dad says. “We’re here. And on time.”
“Gold star for you!” the office manager says.
“Hey, this is my kind of place,” Dad says.
Dad expects praise for doing things you’re supposed to do, like showing up for your kid’s appointment on time.
The office manager hands me my chart and directs me back to one of the carrels.
“Do you need me to come with you?” Dad says.
“It’s not the dentist, Daddy,” Sweet Caroline says. She’s making herself tea from the dispenser.
When we were kids, Dad used to come into the dentist’s with us because we were so afraid. He hated it even worse than we did. He said the sound of the drill reminded him of the machines at Zadie’s terry cloth factory and gave him a migraine.
“I’ll be fine,” I say.
“Good luck then,” Dad says, and he puts his arms straight out in front of him and moans like a mummy.
I head to the back, slip off my shoes, and lie down on the hard table. You’re supposed to meditate while you wait for your adjustment. I listen to the sound of water from an electric fountain and a recording of someone chanting in a foreign language. I wonder if it’s Sanskrit. The sad thing is, I wouldn’t even know if it was because I don’t speak any Sanskrit.
I arrange my neck pillow behind me, and I try to count my breaths. It doesn’t work, so I try to focus on an object, a particular ceiling tile with a pattern that almost looks like a smiley face. When that doesn’t work, I try to feel where my body is in space, monitoring my five senses. All of these are tricks I’ve learned from Mom. But instead of relaxing me, meditating just makes me think faster and faster. Why would anyone meditate if it just makes things louder?
I feel a gentle touch on my foot.
I look up into the smiling face of Dr. Prem and his white turban. I have nothing against Sikhs or people who wear white as a lifestyle choice, but I just don’t believe in it. I don’t believe in the power of white, or the healing magic of the Kundalini yoga he always talks about, or even alternative treatments like chiropractic. I come because it makes Mom happy. And it sort of feels nice when your back cracks.
“How are you, Sanskrit?” he says.
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s find out,” he says, and he starts to press different points on my body.
He presses the center of my chest, holds his hand there for a moment. I start to feel afraid. What if he can feel what’s going on with me? The anger inside of me, the secrets I’m keeping. What if he could get all of it just by touching me, and the secrets came rushing out of my body without my being able to stop them?
He presses my chest again, but nothing bad happens. He simply says, “Very interesting.”
I open my eyes. He’s smiling at me.
“I don’t believe in this,” I say.
“Why do you come?”
“Because my mother wants me to.”
“I like that,” he says.
“You like that I don’t believe in what you do?”
“No, I like that you were honest.” He leans towards me, his voice dropping to a whisper:
“We don’t have to do the adjustment. I’ll tell your mother I did it, but I won’t charge her.”
“That’s okay,” I say. “I like the cracking sound.”
“You’re sure?” he says. “I’m here,” I say. “We might as well do it.” So he begins.
He holds up my arm and presses a few places on my stomach and chest. Then he sits me up and has me lean back into him, cradling me as he cracks one place in my back. It makes me laugh because it feels like being a baby.
After that he cracks my neck, a loud crack that sends a shiver across my shoulder, down my arm, and out my fingertips.
He has me turn over and put my head in the donut so I’m looking at the floor. He presses a little clicky thing on my back.
The chanting in the room gets louder.
“What language is she singing?” I say.
“Your language,” Dr. Prem says.
“Mine?”
“Sanskrit.”
“I wondered about that,” I say. I relax into the table. My body feels better. My head is quieter.
I feel the tiniest bit happy, like things aren’t as bad as I thought they were.
The woman sings in Sanskrit, the language of me.
Dr. Prem finishes the adjustment by asking me to take a deep breath and hold it. He says, “Think about any physical pain or tension in your body.”
There’s lots of physical pain and tension.
A pain in my neck from Mom.
A pain in my ass from Sweet Caroline.
A pain in my gut from not having a girlfriend.
And a pain somewhere lower that I don’t want to talk about.
Dr. Prem says, “Exhale,” and I let the pain go.
“Again,” he says, and I breathe in and hold it. “This time imagine any emotional distress—worries, fears, upset.”
I’ve got a lot of that, too. Maybe more than a sixteen-year-old should have. I exhale and try to let it go.
“Last time,” Dr. Prem says, “the deepest breath yet.”
I suck in a long, deep breath.
“You are connected to the Infinite and Divine—” Dr. Prem says.
I’m flooded with a feeling of lightness.
“—with every breath that you take,” Dr. Prem says. “Now exhale.”
I let the air rush from my lungs. I try to make the big whoosh sound that Dr. Prem likes to hear.
That’s when it hits me.
A vision.
Maybe that’s the wrong name for it. I don’t believe in visions. But it’s something.
I see me with The Initials, walking hand in hand in a forest.
We walk into a clearing, and Mom is there. She’s sitting with a picnic spread out in front of her. A vegetarian cornucopia. The Initials and I join her. We laugh and talk about everything with Mom.
Dad walks by and sits down next to us. He and Mom look at each other—a kind look, not the nasty glances they give each other in real life.
Even Sweet Caroline is there. She comes bounding out of the forest and plops down next to me, jams her hand into a bowl of blue corn chips.
We’re all happy in this vision. Together and happy. And then it dissolves.
I open my eyes.
“Where did you go?” Dr. Prem says.
“I’m not sure.”
He touches my shoulder.
“Rest here for a moment.”
I lie on the table, exhaling long breaths up towards the ceiling.
Dr. Prem marks something down on my chart. He puts it back in the holder and starts to walk away.
“Do you believe in visions, Dr. Prem?”
“I believe in everything,” he says.