We’re sitting at a stoplight after dropping off the guru. I’m in the backseat, and I haven’t said a word.
“I’m trying to communicate with you like Sweet Caroline’s psychologist said I should,” Mom says.
The light turns green. There’s a beep behind us.
“Sanskrit,” Mom says. “Nobody can plan for love. It’s mysterious.”
Another beep.
If I open my mouth, I’ll say something terrible, so I keep it closed. I feel the anger churning in my stomach, a cement mixer filled with fake beef products.
“Sanskrit,” Mom says.
A long horn blast.
Mom steps on the gas, and we’re moving again.
“I give up,” she says.
Me, too, I think.
When we get home, Mom pulls into the driveway but doesn’t open the garage door.
“I’m taking a drive,” she says.
Mom never takes drives. She’s too concerned with leaving a small carbon footprint. But tonight she leaves the car running and waits for me to get out. Then she pulls out of the driveway fast, narrowly missing our mailbox before disappearing into the night.