Evil Tongue

1. 1. According to the Talmud, only three sins in Jewish law are so serious they are forbidden under any circumstances, even to save a life. These are murder, idol worship, and adultery. But in many interpretations, there is a fourth sin, equal to, if not worse than, these: lashon hara—literally, "evil tongue." It is said of one who is guilty of lashon hara that God declares, "He and I cannot exist in the same world."

2. 2. Here are notes I keep in the back of my old-fashioned Filofax. They are scribbled in an unlikely bright neon pink, in handwriting that looks youthful, moving across the page in buoyantly large loops. I wrote them fifteen years ago, while on the phone with my mother's therapist. Olga. I underlined the name twice at the top of the page, as if to express my disbelief that my mother's therapist was calling me. I read it in one sitting. Gripping, wonderful. I don't think there's anything in there to upset your mother. I think you were not unkind to her. Not at all. In fact, I think you were generous.

3. 3. Olga was a therapist well known for her work with families. She's probably dead now. She was old, even then. I'll have to look her up. It feels suddenly important to know if she's still out there. Olga had a thick Hungarian accent, and when she said the word generous, it sounded rich, mellifluous, comforting. If my mother's therapist was calling to tell me that my memoir—one I had sneaked to her, in galleys, so that she could prepare my mother for its imminent arrival in bookstores—was not unkind, was in fact generous, not to mention gripping and wonderful, I should take her word for it. Shouldn't I?

4. 4. In Memoriam. It's the second listing that comes up in a Google search of Olga's name. She died last year.

5. 5. Olga, even Olga, who is peripheral to this story, a secondary character, and not one who haunts me, is completely identifiable here. If you type Olga and family therapist into any search engine, there she'll be. The unusual first name. The Hungarian origins. The vaunted reputation in her field. You might come across a video clip in which she described her process as "intuitive," that she believed "the less intervention the better," and that "people should be in charge of their own lives." In truth, I don't think Olga was a good therapist. She was way off-base in her assessment of my mother, who was not a mildly depressed and self-absorbed housewife, one of the "worried well," but rather, had a borderline personality disorder with narcissistic features, which any therapist will tell you is just about the most difficult kind of patient to treat.

   Olga was also wrong about my memoir, which, though not cruel, was neither kind nor generous toward my mother. Nor was she remotely on target in her prediction of my mother's response upon reading it. Olga: "I think she'll be fine with it." My mother: "You've ruined my life."

   Does my characterization of Olga constitute lashon hara? Would it be more or less so if she were still among us? And have you noticed that I just gave my mother a very unflattering diagnosis? Narcissistic. Borderline. Who am I? Who the hell am I? The daughter. The writer. The one who remains to tell the tale. If she could, my mother would rise from her own grave to tell you these pages are full of lies. I can feel her all around me as I write, the air in my study electric with her silent protest. But in fact, I'm trying to tell the truth here. My version of it, anyway. Trying to tell the truth used to feel like enough.

6. 6. "You shall not go up and down as a tale-bearer among your people." Leviticus 19:16. The Hebrew word for "tale-bearer" is rakhil, which has its roots in a word meaning trader or merchant...