Since You Left Me Read Online Free PDF

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.
    “It’s late now,” Herschel says. “Sleep on it, pray on it, and you’ll know the right answer in the morning.”
    Thanks for nothing , I think.
    But I don’t say it. I express my gratitude, hang up, and turn off the phone.
    Pray on it.
    What does that really mean? I can say the Hebrew prayers they teach me in school, but they have no meaning to me. I can use the English translations, but those just sound like gibberish. They all begin the same way:
    Blessed art thou, O Lord our God, King of the universe …
    I sit on my bed. I think about all the different prayers I know.
    Dr. Prem, the chiropractor that Mom sends me to, calls out to the Divine.
    “Repeat after me,” he says. “I am willing, ready, and able to experience the Divine.”
    But I’m not willing, ready, and able.
    Mom tells me to access the Great Spirit.
    None of those works for me.
    I should be praying to HaShem . That’s what they teach us.
    I try it in my own words. I say, “I’m sorry, HaShem , for lying about Mom—”
    I can’t even finish the prayer. I feel like an idiot, alone and talking to myself in an empty room.
    Is this what prayer is supposed to feel like?
    Instead of praying, I get practical. I need to buy myself some time. But how?
    Mom’s phone .
    I open my door and slip into the hallway.
    Mom and Sweet Caroline are in bed.
    I make my way to the kitchen.
    I navigate by moonlight shining through the kitchen window. I can see the black square of Mom’s phone still on the kitchen table where she tossed it. She often leaves it on the table and forgets to plug it in. Then she’s baffled when it’s not charged the next day. Usually I plug it in for her, but that has the unintended effect of making her believe there are power fairies who keep her battery at 100 percent.
    I pick up the phone, slip it into my pocket—
    “What are you doing?” Sweet Caroline says.
    She’s standing in the kitchen doorway. I swear, the girl has elephant ears.
    “Nothing,” I whisper.
    “You’re taking Mom’s phone.”
    “I’m plugging it in for her.”
    “The plug is on the counter. You’re putting it in your pocket.”
    “Jesus.”
    “Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”
    “He’s not our Lord.”
    “He’s someone’s Lord. You could have a little respect for that.”
    “Not now, Caroline.”
    She sucks in a quick breath. Her cheeks puffout, and she picks at the corner of her lip.
    “Don’t pick,” I say. She picks until she bleeds. It’s as gross as it sounds.
    “Don’t tell me what to do!” she says. She pulls on her lip even harder.
    “ Sweet Caroline,” I say quickly. “Very sweet.”
    She relaxes a little and comes into the kitchen.
    “Why are you stealing Mom’s phone?”
    “I’m prepping it for her. For the morning.