Mothers and Other Strangers

by Gina Sorell

  “It looks like a law library.”

  “It is,” my mother said. She used both hands as she pulled open the door and led the way inside, quickly crossing the marble lobby to the back of the building. I could hear people talking as we got closer, and it sounded like someone was strumming a guitar. My mother fussed with her hair as she walked and reapplied her lipstick. At the end of the hall she stopped and reached back for my arm, hooking hers through mine so we rounded the corner together.

  “Brothers and sisters,” my mother called out as the guitar strumming stopped.

  “Sister,” they called out, turning to face her. They were gathered around the library’s reference tables, some seated, others standing among the stacks of books, leaning against the shelves. The room smelled of incense and was dimly lit by little study lamps that ran the length of the tables. There must have been at least a hundred people, men and women ranging in age from early twenties to late fifties. I was surprised at how normal most of them looked. For some reason I had always imagined that they’d be wearing robes, and here they were, some of them dressed casually, some clearly straight from work, but all of them looking like, well, regular people. They were all staring at me now, and I waited for my mother to say something.

  “Philippe, I have a guest. My daughter Elspeth.”

  “Elspeth.”

  I found the voice at the head of the table and turned to see Philippe. The room went quiet and he placed his hands on the table and stood. He was shorter than I expected, but carried himself like a tall person, his shoulders pulled back and his spine erect. He looked me straight in the eye and smiled.

  “Come,” he said, motioning me closer. My mother nudged me forward, and I made my way down the table toward him. He was much younger and better looking than I’d imagined, and it made me uncomfortable, his salt-and-pepper hair and long dark lashes framing gray eyes. I gripped the sides of my skirt, resisting the urge to fuss with my hair or outfit. He stared at me intently, his smile widening slowly until I was close enough for him to reach his hands out and place them on my hips, turning his body to me as he did so. Everyone’s eyes were on me as I held my breath and tried not to move my body under his hands. He leaned forward, pressed his forehead to mine, and whispered.

  “Welcome.”

  “Welcome,” the room replied in unison, and I exhaled as we turned out to face everybody. I looked across the room to my mother, but she was staring straight past me to Philippe, her eyes wide, her face plastered with a tight smile. I started to move toward her, but he gently touched my wrist and motioned for me to sit next to him.

  “As a guest of your mother, and not a member, I ask you not to participate, but to observe.” He motioned for those who were standing to sit. “Any questions you may have, feel free to ask me after.” He placed his hand on my shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. “All right?”

  I nodded, speechless. A current ran through my body, and my heart beat faster. I’d never felt this way in someone’s presence before, and looking around the room, I saw by the adoration on the faces of those present that I wasn’t alone. Like flowers finding the sun, they had all turned their bodies in their seats to find him.

  “Let’s begin.”

  He clapped his hands together, lowered his head, and started chanting in a low voice. The chant was in something other than English, so I didn’t know what they were saying, but it sounded nice.

  When he was done, he clapped his hands one more time and everyone whispered, “To the light,” opened their eyes, and waited for him to speak.

  The evening’s talk was about karma, and how one’s karma in this life was pre-determined by one’s actions in past lives. Karma was a word my mother had been bandying about recently whenever she wanted to justify rather than deal with some inadequacy of hers, and now I knew why.

  “The laws of karma that shape our lives are very complicated. Sometimes our karmas are created by us in this life, and sometimes we inherit them from the actions of our past lives.”

  “Samskaras,” said a young man sitting near the front of the room.

  “Yes, samskaras. Impressions and desires in us that are a result of actions in our previous lives. These too shape our karma. It’s cause and effect, if you will. No one can escape the consequences of his actions. We all have to reap what we have sown.”

  “Sadhu?” asked an older woman, raising her hand.

  “Sadhu? Please, sister, I am no monk. I am just like you and still live very much as a man, tempted by all the things that men are tempted with.” A small smile flickered on his lips, and he shrugged his shoulders as if to say, What can you do?

  “Maybe that is my karma, sister. I just try to do good work, spread the light, and bring together those who want to live their lives striving toward being better, kinder, more godly people. I am no better than you.”

  There were murmurs of disagreement about this last statement, and Philippe hung his head in embarrassment and shushed the room quiet.

  “Please, continue with your question, sister.”

  “All right, brother.” She paused after the word brother, and shook her head to show that she clearly found Philippe to be more than that. The room glowed with smiling faces, a room full of disciples, flattered that their leader felt he was just like them. It was hard not to notice how much it endeared Philippe to them, and I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I felt the same way.

  “What I was wondering was,” she continued, “what if I don’t know what I’ve sown? If I didn’t commit my past actions, how can I know what they are?”

  “Well, sister, all one has to do is look at the situations that we keep finding ourselves in. The good ones we don’t worry about much, do we? Health, happiness, wealth—we don’t worry about what we did to deserve these. No, it is the bad ones, misery, illness, conflict with others, that we want to understand and know how to stop, and who can blame us? But let’s say you are in a bad marriage, or you’re always finding yourself in bad relationships, maybe that is your fault. Maybe you were the one who was the cause of unhappiness in your past relationships. Or maybe you have money troubles; maybe you had so much money in your past life and weren’t generous with others who needed it, and so now you know what it’s like to always want for more. Maybe you have acquired so much bad karma over the years that it has made you physically sick, so that you have to take stock of your life and right the wrongs you have committed. You see, there is always a lesson to be learned. There is always payback, but there is always redemption, too.”

  “So what do I do?” asked the woman.

  “Well, first you must accept this is part of the plan that is set out for us, and then you must work to overcome it. You must try to see what the lesson is and rise above it, and in some instances simply endure it, for that is what you are meant to do. With enough devotion and meditation, you will know what is right, and you will be able to right your karma. It may take a whole lifetime, it may take many, but it is possible to pay off your karmic debt.”

  I saw my mother nod her head and wring her hands at the back of the room. I had no idea what her karma was. I wondered what my own karma might be and what I had or hadn’t done to deserve a mother like Rachel. Maybe I’d been too blessed in my past life. Maybe I would be rewarded for my suffering later. Unlike the people in this room, I’d never really thought about it before.

  The rest of the talk continued with people offering their own stories and theories on how karma shaped their destiny and questioned whether or not their destinies could actually be changed. Of course, Philippe felt it was always best to remedy bad karma through good deeds and service, but that could take an entire lifetime, and sometimes even that wasn’t enough time. To my surprise, it was a fascinating and intelligent discussion. I was amazed at how knowledgeable Philippe was and how quickly he was able to reference different philosophies and religions to support his arguments. At the time I was impressed at what I thought was the breadth of his knowledge, rather than suspecting
that he might actually only know a little about a lot of things. A man who knows a little bit about everything is not an expert, he is a danger. But I was too young to see that.

  Philippe was confident in his role as guru, more confident than anyone in the room. And his confidence in himself was infectious. Whenever a question was asked, everyone leaned forward and waited to see how he’d respond before nodding along with him or murmuring their own agreements. If he disagreed with someone, it wasn’t long before they’d be apologizing for what they’d said, or changing their mind once he’d finished arguing his point. He was a charismatic talker, making eye contact with people as he spoke, often reminding them that it wasn’t his opinion that they should defer to, but the teachings of the great spiritual thinkers who came before him. It made him appear humble, which only added to his appeal.

  Somebody made a joke about karmic debts having a higher interest rate than credit cards, and when I laughed along with everyone else, he reached over and held my knee. Without thinking I reached out and touched his hand, and he turned to me and smiled, and then gave my knee a little squeeze before removing his hand as he continued talking. I looked out into the group to find my mother. I caught her looking at me just as she averted her eyes and fixed them on Philippe. I waited for her to look back, but she was committed to pretending she hadn’t seen me. Her face was strained, and she held her mouth in a thin line that barely turned up at the corners. I recognized this look instantly. Jealousy. She was jealous that I was the one sitting next to Philippe, a man easily three times my age.

  The sermon, for lack of a better word, lasted about an hour and a half, and at the end of it, Philippe asked everyone to close his or her eyes and reach out and touch the person one seat over. This time it was my hand on Philippe’s knee, and I couldn’t help but smile. I like to think I was simply captivated by Philippe’s charm, but deep down I knew my surprise at his taking notice of me had escalated into delight when I realized it had been noticed by my mother.

  I had never garnered attention. I was constantly outshone by my mother’s gift for directing everyone’s attention to her. It hardly mattered who was in the room, as long as it was clear she was at the center of it. It was something I’d resigned myself to, and we both had an understanding that this was the way things would always be, although lately I had begun to suspect, by the way she’d been looking at me—and the way the straight guys in my company stayed behind after rehearsals to praise my dancing and walk me to the subway—that I was no longer as plain as she had often told me I was. I’d suspected it but had yet to test it in her presence, and that night I was proven right. I felt more alive than I ever had, knowing I had a secret, knowing I wasn’t coming back, and for that reason, I believe, I gently squeezed his knee and ran my thumb back and forth ever so lightly along it.

  As soon as we lifted our heads from the little prayer that ended the service, people came rushing up to Philippe to try to talk with him further. Some asked him to transfer his good energy onto them, and he obliged, closing his eyes and chanting om as he ran his hands over the outlines of their bodies without touching them at first, and then ending the chant by opening his eyes and holding them in a tight embrace. I watched as these members dissolved into tears and laughter, thanked Philippe profusely, and rushed to find the Seeker who held the donation plate at the door. Eventually someone from the group led Philippe out of the room through a side door, and the meeting came to an end.

  I found my mother waiting outside, surrounded by members, and was hoping to get a chance to speak with her about the meeting. Like everything with her, my feelings of anger and hurt were won out by my deep desire for her to notice and like me. No matter how many times she’d shown me that she wasn’t interested in being my parent, let alone my friend, I still attached too much hope and importance to her actions. And so I foolishly let myself think that maybe this meeting was more than just a way for her to keep her date with the Seekers and celebrate my birthday—maybe it was an invitation to join the group and be a part of her life, now that she thought I was finally old enough. Maybe Philippe was just being friendly, maybe I was just being treated like a grownup, and maybe my mother would see that, and this night would be a turning point. I was planning on telling her how fascinating I thought her group was when she was joined by Philippe and some of the other members. I saw that we would be a party of six, although who the three other people were I had yet to find out. I doubt anyone knew we were supposed to be celebrating my sixteenth birthday. We wound up at a Moroccan restaurant that was a favorite of Philippe’s. He said the owner was an old friend, and he liked to visit whenever he was in town.

  “Philippe!” a large, dark-skinned man with slicked-back curly hair called out and grabbed him in a bear hug.

  “Maurice. Mon ami, how are you?”

  “How do I look?” He rubbed his hands over his big belly and laughed.

  “Well. You look well.”

  “Too well! I am fat, but rich, and the two often go together, no?” He laughed and playfully slapped Philippe’s flat stomach, making him wince.

  “I see you’ve brought friends.” He took my mother’s bad hand and, surprised by its distortion, hesitated for a moment before he kissed it. “Madame.”

  “Monsieur,” my mother smiled, her cheeks flushing.

  “And Mademoiselle, you must be sisters, no?” I could hear the relief in my mother’s fake little laugh that he hadn’t said that I was her daughter.

  “Elsie,” I said.

  The others in our group were a couple who looked to be in their early forties named Danielle and Simon and a good-looking man is his twenties named Henri. We were led to a private alcove and seated at a low, round table with cushions on the floor. The stone floors were covered in Persian rugs, and the place was warm and smelled of toasted spices and cinnamon. The ceilings and walls were draped with swaths of brightly colored fabric that had little ribbons of gold running through them, making them shimmer in the light of the colored glass lanterns that hung from the ceiling.

  “This is just like it is in Morocco,” said Philippe, raising his voice above the din of the packed restaurant.

  “You’ve been?” I asked.

  “Sure, that’s where I met Maurice.” He called over the waitress, who was dressed as a belly dancer in a long, gauzy pink skirt and a bra top fringed with gold beads. As she approached, I heard the little coins around her waist and ankles chime with each step. She arrived at the table and shook her hips and breasts seductively for a few moments before striking a pose and snapping her fingers. The table burst into a round of applause, and she laughed and tossed her hair back. “Tea, please,” said Philippe as he reached his hand up to her waist and ran his fingers along the coins so that they sounded like wind chimes, and a moment later she returned with hot mint tea and a bottle of wine. “From Maurice.”

  Philippe blew a kiss across the room to Maurice, who bowed slightly.

  “Wine?” asked my mother.

  “Yes, wine,” he said. He turned to me. “As members of the Seekers, we are not supposed to eat meat or drink, but.…”

  “But?” asked Henri, as he arched his eyebrows. “Don’t worry, no one is going to card you here,” he said, leaning in close and filling my glass. He winked at me, and I blushed, even though I was sure he meant nothing by it. Good-looking guys like Henri, who were sexy and okay with everyone knowing it, liked to flirt with girls like me, girls they knew would welcome the attention and give them the audience they were looking for, but whom they weren’t actually interested in.

  “But today is a special occasion. It is Elsie’s birthday, is it not? And besides, nobody is going to order the lamb,” said Philippe. He smiled at me and then took my mother’s hand and lifted it to his lips. “Everything in moderation. Even moderation.” She blushed and smiled back.

  “Yes, but still she’s only.…” said my mother.

  “Only what? What is age anyway? Our physical age means nothing. It is the age of our soul
s that really matters. And I can tell just by looking at Elsie,” he reached up and placed his hand at the back of my neck, his fingers hooking ever so slightly into my hair, “she is a very old soul.” He turned to look at my mother. “You were the same.”

  Her face went red, and I wondered whether it was because Philippe had acknowledged that she wasn’t young anymore, or if it meant something more.

  “How long have you known my mother?” I asked.

  “In this lifetime, or all together?” he asked, smiling at me.

  “Oh no, not this lecture again,” joked Henri. “I for one do not have enough lifetimes to listen to it.”

  “Did you know my father too?”

  “Elspeth.” My mother sat up straight and clenched her jaw. “This isn’t the time for another round of your twenty questions.”

  “It’s all right,” said Philippe, placing a hand on her leg and turning to look at me. “It’s good to have questions. I can tell you this about your father. Wherever he is, I am sure he would be proud to see what a bright and beautiful young woman you are.” He placed his hand against my cheek and raised his glass.

  “To Elsie, happy birthday!”

  “Happy birthday!” Everyone chimed in, and we all clinked glasses.

  It wasn’t my first glass of wine, but it was the first one I had in front of my mother. Ever since she had become serious about the Seekers, she’d tried to refrain from vices. These included meat, drugs, coffee, of which she still allowed herself one cup a day, and alcohol. But these apparently did not include lying, vanity, selfishness, and gossip. It came as no surprise to me that Mother would alter the tenets of her faith to suit her. I raised the glass to my lips and took a sip of the red wine. It was warm and sweet and made my lips tingle, and I quickly took another sip. I’d drunk half a glass before I set it down, and the room felt hotter than before. I leaned back on my hands and took a deep breath.