That’s what I ask Mom when I get home. I want to tell her what I’ve seen, just blurt it out the minute I get into the kitchen, where she’s arranging arugula leaves on a plate, but I think that would be a mistake. Mom might accuse me of lying to her, making things up to ruin her life.
“How can I trust him?” Mom says.
She holds out an arugula leaf for me to take a bite.
“I’m not hungry,” I say.
“Please try it,” Mom says.
I open my mouth and let her put it in.
“How does it taste?” she says.
“It’s spicy.”
“How did you know it was okay to eat?” Mom says.
“That’s a weird question.”
“How do you know it wasn’t poisoned, for instance?”
“You’re freaking me out, Mom.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you gave it to me. You’re my mother.”
“Mothers go crazy. You see it on the news sometimes, how they drive into a lake with their kids in the car.”
“Remind me never to drive with you again.”
“I’m just saying you ate it because you trust me. You know me, and you trust me. It’s as simple as that, right?”
“Maybe.”
Mom smiles, puts more arugula on the plate. “That’s how I feel about the guru.”
“What if he did something to make you feel differently?”
“Like what?”
“Like something.”
Mom looks concerned.
“What are you telling me?” she says.
I try to find the words, but I can’t.
“Nothing,” I say.
Mom puts down the tray and comes over.
“You’re worried about me,” she says. “I think that’s sweet.”
She hugs me tight.
“What are you doing?” I say.
“I’m hugging my son,” she says, like it’s something she does all the time.
It doesn’t stop at the hug. She keeps her arms around me, pulling me close to her. She plants a kiss in my hair.
“Cut it out,” I say, and I twist away from her.
“You’re too old for a hug?”
“Not too old,” I say. “It’s just weird.” Mom rolls her eyes at me, then goes back to her salad.
I watch her moving lettuce around on the tray, cutting cubes of baked tofu to lay around the perimeter. She hums softly to herself as she does it.
Softly.
Ever since Mom met the guru, her energy has changed.
She’s softer now, more open.
She sings to herself. She dances around the house. She’s nice to me.
That’s when it hits me: Mom’s happy.
If I tell her what I saw at the yoga studio, she’s going to hate me. That’s if she even believes me.
I consider not saying anything. I could leave Mom alone, let this all happen like it’s going to happen. If God is really in charge like Herschel says, then I can let him take care of it, can’t I?
But what if he’s not in charge and I let my mother go to India with a guy who is cheating on her?
I can’t tell her, but maybe I can show her.
A plan is coming together, a way I might be able to get my mother back. But I’m going to need Sweet Caroline’s help.