“Mother?”

“Whoa!” My mom laughed nervously and the sound echoed in the stairwell. “Brooklyn! Whew, I’m glad it’s you and not your father.”

Not the greeting I’d expected. But nothing was meeting my expectations this evening.

She clung to the stair rail, catching her breath. She wasn’t exactly dressed for a high-society art opening in her pink and white jogging outfit and gym shoes. Her dark blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her skin glistened with moisture as though she’d been working out for the last hour.

“Mother, what’re you doing here?”

She glanced anxiously over her shoulder. I did, too, suddenly paranoid. Assured we were alone, she whispered, “I needed to see Abraham privately.”

“Tonight?” I frowned. “It’s kind of the opposite of private around here, Mom. What’s going on?”

She bit her lip. “Nothing.”

I almost laughed. “Nothing?”

“That’s right, nothing.” She fisted her hand on her hip, annoyed. “He stood me up.”

“What? Who stood you up? Abraham?”

“I can’t talk about it.”

“But Mom, you-”

She held up her hand to shut me up, then closed her eyes, rolled her shoulders and put her palms together, yoga-style. I recognized the move. She was finding her center, calming herself, aligning her chakras, balancing her core. She was one with the universe. Good grief.

“Earth to Mom.”

She slowly opened her eyes and bowed her head. “All is well.”

“No, Mom, all is weird. What’re you-”

“Om shanti shanti shanti,” she chanted, as she reached out and touched the center of my forehead, my third eye, the seat of higher consciousness where inner peace reigned.