Lauren Takes Leave

by Gerstenblatt, Julie

  Sometimes I get macabre.

  A yellow Post-it is attached to the refrigerator, reading Gone to park 3:30.

  Huh. Laney took my kids outside. For physical activity. Some vitamin D. Astonishing.

  She must want something.

  A raise?

  Complete ownership of my ceramic straightening iron?

  I riffle through the possibilities while heading back out the front door and down the block. At the curve in the road, I take the shady dirt path through the woods, which opens onto a baseball field and playground. There, on the blacktop basketball courts, with their bicycles (their bicycles!), are my children. Laney is standing by, cheering them on. She’s not texting on her phone, listening to her iPod, or even chatting it up with another babysitter in the park. She’s actually paying attention to my kids and having fun with them.

  It’s been a while since she’s done that.

  Come to think of it, it’s been a while since I’ve done that.

  “Mommy!” Becca calls, seeing me emerge through the trees. “Look!”

  I watch as she pushes down hard on the petals and gets the bike to move steadily forward without needing a shove from behind. “That’s super-duper, puppy!” I call, feeling warmth spread through me. Who knew such a small action could inspire me to cheer so loudly? And when did Becca get so big?

  Ben gets off his bicycle and comes over sort of shyly, pulling a tennis ball from his jacket pocket. “Wall ball?” I ask.

  He merely nods his head as we walk over to the racquetball wall set up on the other side of the park. Wall ball is a third-grade phenomenon. The rules seem to have been passed down through the ages, from out-going third-grade boys to incoming third-grade boys, perhaps through some sort of formalized, recess-based ceremony that only they know about. Keeping the traditions of this ritual alive in playgrounds and blacktops of this great land is critical to the culture of nine-year-old males.

  In September, when I asked Ben how he learned about this game with all its very many complicated (and sometimes contradictory) rules and regulations, he shrugged. “I just did, that’s all.” I pictured him being sworn to secrecy behind the jungle gym before being handed a neon-yellow ball.

  I love playing wall ball with Ben, talking about our day, laughing about nothing.

  Even if he does keep changing the rules and I always lose.

  “Mom, I have to tell you something,” Ben says, concentrating more than necessary on the wall and the ball.

  My mom-gut clenches in automatic response, but I keep it breezy. “Sure, pup, what is it?”

  “You didn’t put my homework in my folder, and I got a zero for the day.” He eyes me now, accusingly.

  “I didn’t?” I say, emphasis on the “I,” as in “Why would I?”

  “No,” he agrees. “You did not! And I missed recess to do it over and now I have to do a whole extra packet of work just because!” He stifles a sob. “And it’s all your fault!”

  Missed recess? Assigned a whole extra packet? Well, it’s not my fault that your teacher is a bitch, I think. I take a deep, cleansing breath and say, “Putting your homework in your folder is your responsibility.” Though the fine line is quite wavy between his list of responsibilities and my acts of indentured servitude.

  “I’m not doing it,” he shouts, hurling the tennis ball at me and trudging over to the swing set. “You can just write a note to my teacher explaining what you did.”

  And you can just go to hell, my friend, I think, ’cause I’m not doing that.

  “Don’t talk to me like that!” I call after him.

  “Ay, Dios mio!” Laney exclaims from the blacktop, where she is standing with Becca.

  “What?” I ask, jogging to their side. “Becca, are you okay?”

  She nods from under her bicycle helmet and silently points at Laney.

  “She bit me!” Laney says, clutching one hand in the other. “Like a dog.”

  “No!” I say. But I’m not really sure of that, so I ask my very quiet five-year-old. “Becca, did you bite Laney?”

  “We were playing a game called Cats and Dogs!”

  “Becca!” I yell. “You never hurt someone on purpose. Only accidentally!” Which might not be the best way to explain what I mean, because Becca’s nodding her head in furious agreement.

  “I didn’t mean to, Mommy! Really!”

  How many times have I heard that from her, I wonder, trying to catalogue the most recent examples. Last week, it was a boy down the street who she didn’t mean to punch, and the week before that it was a teacher’s aide on the playground who she “accidentally” kicked in the shins. Since she started kindergarten, I’ve spent more time at Becca’s school than at my own.

  “How did this happen?” I say, looking to the sky for an answer.

  “Well,” Laney begins, “first, we pretended that we were at a kennel…”

  “No, Laney, not this,” I say, gesturing to the small, jagged teeth imprints in her flesh. “This!” I say, sweeping my hands across the playground in a generous motion. “My life! The way things are fine and then, suddenly, bam, they aren’t! They are very not fine!”

  “Oh,” she says. “That’s like, what do you call it…existential, right? I am going back to the house to clean this and put on a bandage.”

  Everyone else has left the playground now that the sun is setting. Metallic creaking from Ben’s swing and the chirping of a few birds are the only sounds besides a roaring in my ears. I sit cross-legged on the blacktop and rest my head in my hands, trying to still my pounding heartbeat.

  We were having so much fun, I think. Why does my time with them always have to slide into chaos and stress? I try to flood my mind with serene images: a turquoise ocean, a palm tree, the hot sun.

  It helps, a little.

  “Googly’s here,” Becca says, gently tapping me on the arm. “And I’m sorry.”

  “You’ll have to apologize to Laney back at the house, Becca,” I say, sighing. “But I thank you for saying it to me, too.”

  I stand up and walk with her toward our favorite little pooch, a gray Poodle who always has a pink bow in her hair.

  “Hi, doggie,” Becca says, petting the sweet animal.

  “Wearing your sweater today, I see,” I say, talking directly to the dog.

  “Yes, we’ve just come from Miami, where it is so warm, and she loved it,” Googly’s owner, an elderly man with a French accent informs us. “But here, the evenings are still chilly, and Googly is very sensitive to cold.”

  “Aww…” We nod, petting the dog and making a big fuss over her. Ben ambles over slowly. He doesn’t acknowledge me, but he has picked up the tennis ball and now throws it for Googly. She dashes after it and grabs it but won’t give it back. My kids think this is hysterical.

  Their laughter lightens the mood and helps me start breathing again.

  Maybe all we need to ensure family harmony is a dog with a sweet personality and comedic flair.

  “She’s not much of a retriever,” her owner acknowledges. Googly wags her tail in agreement, eventually giving up the ball.

  “My turn!” Becca shouts, throwing the ball for the dog, who looks lazily past it and decides instead to chew some dandelions. Ben runs after the ball and a game of catch ensues.

  “So, Miami, huh?” I say, by way of conversation with this man who I see all the time but whose name I do not know. At this point in our relationship, it would be sort of awkward to ask, so I let it slide.

  “Yes. It was splendid,” he says, nodding at the memory. “Such an easy trip, you know. So many direct flights from New York, so many wonderful, dog-friendly hotels in South Beach. The best little getaway I know of,” he sighs.

  I sigh too, wrapping my arms around myself in the crisp evening air. “Sounds perfect.”

  It’s getting late. I announce that it’s dinnertime, and we wave good-bye to Googly and her owner.

  The kids spend the entire walk home—and most of dinnertime—pleading for a dog
of their own.

  I’m thinking about Googly, too. How nice it must have been for him to get away from chilly New York for a few days.

  Right before Laney leaves for the evening, I remind her of tomorrow’s schedule. “You will need to take the kids to the bus in the morning, so be here by eight.” She nods. I don’t tell her why, that I’ll be on a train to Boston to pick up a sweater and then meet a friend for coffee. Even in my own head it sounds crazy. “And I have that party to go to at night, so I’ll just be home to change around dinner time before going back out. I’m not sure what Doug’s schedule is,” I say, unsuccessfully trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

  “Okay, then. Bye, mis amores!” Laney calls out, blowing kisses to the kids. “I had fun with you today!”

  Later, as I’m cleaning up in the kitchen and overseeing Ben’s homework, I panic. Homework, I think. What’s my homework tonight? Tests to grade? Lesson plans to write? Reading, to stay a chapter ahead of the class?

  The rolling seasickness passes as I remember: I’m on leave. No tests to grade this week. No lesson plans to write, no books to read for class, no parents to e-mail. Relief washes over me like warm rain.

  “Hey, Ben?” I ask. He looks up from his homework. “Wanna have a family game night tonight?”

  “Really?” The surprise in his eyes tells me all I need to know. “With a championship round and everything?”

  “Indeed. Championship round and everything. The World Series of board games.”

  “With me, too?” Becca asks, coming out of the bathroom. “I can have a family game night, too?”

  “Of course! That’s why it’s called ‘family.’”

  “And Daddy, too?” Ben adds hopefully.

  I pause. “Um…sorry. It’s Tuesday, Daddy’s tennis night. He won’t be home until ten or ten thirty.”

  Ben looks down at his homework and scratches his head.

  “I know, pup. I probably won’t see him tonight either, if that makes you feel any better.”

  He finishes his math worksheet and begrudgingly follows me into the den.

  “Yay!” Becca calls, pulling out all the games. “Which one first?”

  After an hour of board games, followed by baths and stories, my kids are tucked in and the hallway feels sleepy. I tiptoe down the stairs and into the darkened kitchen. Doug won’t be home from his tennis match for two hours.

  Time for Facebook.

  I loved high school so much that, sometimes, I miss it. Doug thinks I teach middle school in order to help me recapture my youth.

  I tell him he’s crazy.

  But I also think: Is it so bad to want to recapture your youth?

  Nothing brings me back to high school faster than a status update from a person I haven’t seen since 1988.

  The pale glow of the computer screen is welcoming. I sign in and check my home page for updates.

  Jamie in California is making challah.

  On a Tuesday? I think. That woman is always making challah. It’s like she’s trying to out-Jew the rest of us in cyberspace.

  Liz has another gastrointestinal bacterial infection and has been in the bathroom for two days. Liz shares way too much.

  John in DC sent out another invitation to an online political rally tomorrow night. This one is called Who Cares? The answer is Not I.

  Photos of the Wallin family. Ugly kids, poor things.

  Ellen has beat her high score at Bejeweled Blitz! Challenge her to a game and see how you do. Or don’t.

  And then there’s one from a person named Ninth Wonder. He wants to know if I have any used contact lenses that I could send to him for an art installation he’s working on. “I live in a tent now in the Adirondacks, so you can just send them to my PO Box,” he advises. Huh?

  I scroll through my list of friends to try and figure out who this could be. When I see that he and I have Lenny Katzenberg as a friend in common, I send a private message to Len.

  Who the hell is Ninth Wonder and how do we know him?

  While I’m waiting for a response, I decide to stalk some more long-lost high school and college friends. Tonight feels like a good night for Dan.

  Dan’s this one ex-boyfriend from college who is particularly fun to follow. He lives in Colorado with his wife and three kids; naturally, the whole family is really outdoorsy. Dan spends all winter uploading great images of kids bundled in ski parkas and helmets and masks coming down the slopes. The only way to tell the kids apart is by the colors of their jackets. There’s Romy, in pink, riding on a lift. The boys, Parker and Hunter—though I don’t know which is which—together with their snowboards. Dan and his wife Lynn, with their big, Chiclet-white teeth, at the top of a fake-looking, white-capped mountain.

  I hate the outdoors. But sometimes I like to pretend I’m Lynn, married to Dan, living in Colorado with my three adventurous, mountain-loving children. Tonight we are sitting by the fire in our huge log cabin. Romy has just come back from mucking the stalls in the stables (I’ve added horses to the fantasy, though in real life I hate them, too), and all the boots and hats and layers of a life spent in nature are piled in the generous-sized mudroom off the kitchen. Dan has made his famous homemade popcorn, and we are playing charades in our waffle-weave long johns. I don’t celebrate Christmas, but in this reverie, every day is just like the Hallmark greeting card version of that holiday.

  There’s an open bottle of wine in the refrigerator calling my name. I pour a large glass, put away some dishes, turn off the kitchen lights, and move back over to the computer.

  By now, Lenny has written back to me:

  I think “Ninth Wonder” is Sean Mallory, from high school. He’s finally gone off the deep end. What a freak. Hey—that wasn’t much of a response to my video today. You’ve let me down.

  His video! My Botox! I forgot. I type in a response as fast as I can with my self-taught, three-fingered technique.

  Am such an idiot! I’m so (with like ten million o’s) sorry. I was in the doctor’s office and didn’t have time to write more. But I thought it was brilliant. Truly. Hilarious.

  And maybe just a tad bit sexy.

  I hit “send” and immediately regret it. I am e-freaked out by my own e-forwardness, which requires several sips of wine to wash away.

  Lenny writes back.

  Can we chat somewhere more private? I hate fb.

  Score one for e-forwardness.

  We switch to our own e-mail accounts and continue our conversation, the online version of moving into a dark corner of a crowded bar. I can almost feel Lenny’s hand on my elbow as he steers me away from the masses of potential onlookers.

  I only get up from the computer once, to refill my wine glass and to grab a handful of chocolate kisses, which I pop like…well, like candy, actually.

  From: lkatzenberg@yale.alumni.edu

  Better. Now, what was that you were saying about my video?

  From: laurenworthing@gmail.com

  That it’s hotter than one of Jamie’s freshly baked challahs? That I like how you shake your moneymaker?

  I can’t believe I just wrote that.

  From: lkatzenberg@yale.alumni.edu

  Yeah, moneymaker is pretty cheesy. I prefer the term “booty.” Also, there’s nothing wrong with a good old-fashioned “ass” now and then. Yours, for example, I remember it being a good old-fashioned, nice little ass.

  From: laurenworthing@gmail.com

  Not true. I have a terrible ass. In fact, you once criticized my ass in high school for not being as round and perky as Lila Cummings’ was, like I could just go to the mall and buy a better J-Lo. FYI.

  Actually, I saw Lila recently. Two kids later, and she still has a fabulous behind. It’s not natural.

  What kind of a moron debunks a myth in a guy’s head about the shapeliness of her ass? Really, Lauren, I scold myself. Flirt wiser. He can’t see you, so what’s the difference? Honest at all the wrong times, I swear.

  I surf through Amazon while waiting for Len
ny’s response and order a new thriller about this guy who stalks women through Facebook.

  From: lkatzenberg@yale.alumni.edu

  Lovely image of you with Lila’s ass. Did you touch it at all? Maybe rub up against it accidentally on purpose with your arm or something? Could you at least just pretend for me? Give a lonely guy something to work with?

  Hey—are you going to be up for a while? I have something I’d like to show you.

  From: laurenworthing@gmail.com

  I’m not sure I want to see that.

  From: lkatzenberg@yale.alumni.edu

  It’s my new video, douche.

  From: laurenworthing@gmail.com

  You didn’t just call me that, did you?

  From: lkatzenberg@yale.alumni.edu

  What? Great ’80s term. I’m bringing it back.

  From: laurenworthing@gmail.com

  Okay, but I think it’s like totally grody to the max to call a woman a douche bag. Maybe this is why you don’t have a girlfriend. Just a guess.

  From: lkatzenberg@yale.alumni.edu

  Speaking of which, it’s too bad you and I never dated. Could have been hot, going south of the border together.

  Where was this offer in 1988, I want to know? I get up from the computer and stretch, digging through the cupboards. There is solace in chocolate-covered gummy bears.

  I chew through a few potential responses before deciding on one that doesn’t make me sound like my inner wounded, prom-dateless teenager.

  From: laurenworthing@gmail.com

  Yes, tres mal. I often wonder how my life might have turned out if only I had let you into my pants.

  From: lkatzenberg@yale.alumni.edu

  I detect sarcasm.

  From: laurenworthing@gmail.com

  Really? Can’t imagine why.

  From: lkatzenberg@yale.alumni.edu

  Lauren. Maybe I’m being serious.

  I physically pull away from the computer, my face flushed. I need to remember where this is coming from. Lenny Katzenberg, awarded Biggest Flirt honors in high school, who has been engaged twice and gotten cold feet both times. Lenny, who used to scan the room at high school keg parties, looking bored, while I tried to make him laugh and he ignored me.

  From: laurenworthing@gmail.com