Lauren Takes Leave (2 page)

“Dad said he had to go make money,” Becca replies. “Is
that what he doos at work? Makes things?”

“That’s not quite what he
does
, Bec. He’s trying to
start a new company, a graphic design start-up. All by himself. It’s very hard
work.”

“Dad says it’s risky, but it’s better than working for
someone else,” Ben adds sagely.

“And dad is right about that,” I say, trying to sound
optimistic as my brain focuses on the adjective
risky
.

“Which is why it’s good to have a teacher in the family!” my
kids say in unison.

I roll my eyes. “Doug!” I call up the stairs. My husband
believes that if he brainwashes our children, I, too, will eventually fall for
his propaganda surrounding the necessity of my stagnant career.

“He went to work, I told you that.” Becca goes to the
front door and licks the glass heartily, like it’s an ice-cream cone.

“Ew, stop! Gross!” I pull her away and wipe the saliva
with my sleeve. “Ben, where are your sneakers?” He stares blankly at the floor,
as if they will materialize in front of his imagined Darth Vader–like laser-beam
eyes. “Find. Them. And. Put. Them. On.”

I rummage through my pocketbook and grab my cell phone. My
husband picks up on the first ring, and I can hear him panting as he walks
briskly down our street and toward the Hadley train station. He’s probably
trying to catch an express train into Manhattan, which only takes thirty-eight
minutes on Metro North.

“You left for work? Without saying good-bye to me?”

“Maybe?” he asks, his voice an octave higher than usual.

“You are
never
supposed to do that! September
eleventh!”

Step, step, pant. Step, step. “Sorry.”

“Sorry accepted.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ben
putting on his sneakers. It’s starting to drizzle, so I help Becca into her
raincoat and Hello Kitty boots, then shrug on my own parka.

There is still no sign of Laney anywhere.

Doug continues. “It was crazy in the house and no one was
paying attention to me after the pants episode, so I just made a break for it.”

“Nice move. Detonate a bomb and then clear out.”

“You don’t get it. This deal with Nickelodeon could be
huge, but I’ve got to stay on top of it, every moving piece. Today was a chance
to head into the office early.”

I’m a working mom with two children, a largely absentee
husband, and a flaky babysitter-slash-housekeeper who, I’m pretty sure, steals
my clothing, and
I
don’t get it? “I’m deeply sympathetic to your
hardship, Doug, really. You should file a complaint with the management.”

“I’ve tried,” he says half-jokingly.

“You’re dying to go to work and I’m dying to take a break.
What’s wrong with this picture? Why can’t I just quit my job?”

“Because you love it.”

“I do, or I
did
? Which verb tense are we using?”

“Well, I sure as hell do, present tense, Mrs. English Teacher.
The salary, the benefits, the lifetime tenure. I’d kill for a job like that.”

“You can have mine without murder,” I say.

“Lauren, not now.” It’s a running dialogue, a continuous
loop day after day, and it always ends with “Lauren, not now.” I wait four
seconds, knowing he will deftly change the subject. One, two, three… “Is that
rain? I forgot my umbrella.”

“Sucks to be you, I guess.”

“I guess. Love you.”

“M-hmm,” I mumble.

“I could die today in a horrible terrorist attack,
remember?” Doug says.

“Yeah, yeah. I love you, too.”

Only half-listening now as Doug tells me about a meeting
he has later today, I scan the messy kitchen and locate a pile of what looks
like art projects of Becca’s and old homework of Ben’s, corrected and returned,
that I never know what to do with. I’m about to move on when I uncover some
legal-size envelopes.

“What’s this?” I ask, holding up the mail as if Doug can
see it, too. “Did you know about this?”

“Oh. Um,” Doug says, which isn’t an answer, so I give him
a hint and wait for more.

“Mail.”

“By the toaster?”

“Yes, by the toaster!” I say. “Which is
not
where
we keep bills and other important-looking papers.”

“I must have put them aside to show you and then forgot.”

“How convenient of you.”

He sighs. “Better check the dates. Some of them are probably
past due. You’re going to have to call.”

Great. Bad credit is just what I need to make this day
even better. “Why am I the one who has to call? This was your mistake!”

“I don’t have
the time
, Lauren.”

Like I do. “I detect some condescension in that
statement,” I say. “And I don’t appreciate it.”

“There is no ‘condescension,’” he says, in a definitely
condescending tone. “You’re being dramatic.”

“At least say you’re sorry! And…argh, I am not being
dramatic!” I slam the pantry door closed to prove it, but since the hinge is
broken, it bounces right back open in my hand.

“It’s mine,” Ben says, his voice floating up from the
basement playroom. “Mom!” he calls. “Becca won’t give me back my Bakugan!”

“But we traded!” Becca says.

“Laney!” I say, knowing that she won’t answer.

Fuck!
I want to scream. Sometimes I feel like
walking out on them and never looking back.
Here’s the instruction manual
,
I would say, flinging a blank spiral notebook over my shoulder, to the surprise
of the entire Worthing contingent.
Have fun figuring it out without me!

For the second time this morning, my pulse is racing. I’d
love to blow up at someone, anyone, really, and just relieve the pressure
mounting in my chest.

But it’s 7:52.

I take a deep breath and turn back to the phone.

“Doug, I’ve gotta go. Before the kids kill each other. And
before we do, too.”

I put down the phone and check the time. “Kids!” I say.
“Bus time!”

I really need Laney to appear this instant and take the
kids to the bus stop so that I can get to work before the first bell rings. I
mean, it’s nice to live in the same town where I teach—my commute contains only
four traffic lights, and if I time them right, I don’t have to stop for any—but
still. Cutting it this close is not my style, even if I am feeling more lax
about my job since that fateful meeting with my principal last month.

“Laney!” I try one last time, her name echoing off the
walls. Where the hell is she?

I hustle the kids out the door and down the driveway,
still clutching the envelopes in my fist.

“Mom, you never take us to the bus!” Becca says. It sounds
like an accusation.

“There’s a first time for everything, Bec!” I chirp.

Ben runs ahead and calls out to some of the boys waiting
at the curb. “Look at my new baseball cards!” he brags, pulling them out of his
backpack. The small crowd of elementary school kids parts to let him in. They
all seem immune to the light rain, while I huddle with Becca under her small
pink ruffly umbrella.

Three moms in black workout leggings and different
Lululemon jackets are standing together and laughing, each with a dog leash
attached to her wrist. I look down at my tan pants, fancy raincoat, and ballet
flats that pinch my toes.

When and if I ever quit my job, I’ll celebrate by getting
a puppy and a wardrobe filled with expensive, glam sweatshirts and matching
spandex pants.

I should be friends with these women, but I’m not. Stay-at-home
moms and working moms exist on different schedules, like humans and vampires. We
inhabit the same world, but go about our business pretty separately. Sometimes
I worry there will be blood when we collide.

“Hi!” I call out to the women, who break apart and look at
me blankly. Then they return to their chatter.

“I’m Ben and Becca’s mom.” No one says anything in my
direction, so I add, “Lauren?”

Still no response.

Anyone? Anyone?

This is getting embarrassing. I hide back under the
umbrella.

Becca tries on my behalf. “This is my
mommy
!”

“Oh, hi!” one of the women says, coming forward. “We
weren’t ignoring you, sorry. We were just talking about someone, but now we’re
done.” She’s the tallest of the women, and she speaks very fast. “I’m Lisa,”
she adds.

“O…kay.” I smile. “It wasn’t me you were talking about,
was it?” I glance over my shoulder in semi-mock paranoia.

“You’re so funny!” Black Leggings Number Two adds. “But
no.” She has wild red hair and big thighs. “Patty.” She points to herself. “And
this is Pam.” The third in the group is bone thin. She waves in my general
direction, thereby using up four calories and getting a jump on her daily
exercise.

“We’re not talking about you unless you kicked your kids
out of your car and left them alone on the streets of Alden to fend for
themselves,” Lisa adds by way of explanation.

“Not recently, no. Haven’t done that for years, not since
the kids were in diapers.”

“She’s a hoot!” Pam declares. One of the dogs barks in
agreement.

I smile somewhat painfully.

“Lauren!” Lisa chastises. She takes a step closer to me;
she’s clearly the leader of the pack. “Don’t you read the
Hadley Inquirer
?
It was the front-page story this weekend. This working mom who was just
completely overwhelmed decided to…” She trails off.

They all look at me expectantly.

“Um…I didn’t have time?” I begin. “I’m a working mom who
is completely overwhelmed?” It’s meant as a joke of sorts, but it hangs in the
air between us like a challenge.

Good way to make friends, Lauren.

“Well, you’re missing out.” Patty sniffs. On both the
local gossip and the camaraderie forged by spreading local gossip, it seems.

“Too bad,” Lisa adds as the bus lurches around the bend
and stops in front of us.

They turn away from me in what can only be called a
collective diss.

Let’s just add this to my morning tally of Ways in Which
My Life Sucks. Not that I’m keeping score.

“Bye, kids!” I call, the stack of mail fluttering over my
head in my grand farewell gesture.

Ben and Becca smile and wave. My heart swells with love
just as the school bus door closes and my children disappear from view.

The bus pulls away and a hearty gust of wind blows past
me, Mary Poppins–style. I feel a definite shift in the air.

Only then do I notice the blue envelope.

After I wave to the departing school bus, that particular
piece of mail gets separated from the others, caught by the wind and released
from my grasp. Instead of flying away from me, however, the envelope drifts slowly
and deliberately to the ground at my feet.

It’s almost as if the letter is
daring
me to pick
it up and read it.

Which, of course, I do.

It’s a jury duty summons addressed to me.

How do I know this? Because written on the outside of the
baby-blue envelope, in bold type so I won’t miss it, are the words
Jury Duty
Summons Enclosed. Immediate Attention.

Damn Doug.

Hands shaking, I remove the tri-folded paper from the
envelope and begin to read aloud, scanning the words quickly. “Your services
are requested…yadda, yadda, yadda…County Courthouse…yadda, yadda…ten a.m. on
Monday, April tenth.”

That’s today.

“Failure to show up on appointed date…yadda,
yadda…incarceration or fines. Fucking fuck me!” I cry out, sprinting back toward
my house.

I explode into my front hall and race to the phone,
jumping over Laney’s coat and bag that lie in a heap in the middle of the
floor. I try to find the substitute-hotline phone number pinned somewhere to
the bulletin board at the small kitchen desk. “There it is!” I say, dialing
furiously.

“Good morning to you, too,” Laney scoffs in her lilting
Spanish accent, passing me with an armful of laundry and attitude.

“Seriously?” I shout.

She whips her long black hair around the banister in
response and disappears into the basement.

The substitute-service answering machine beeps. I leave
the most frantic, discombobulated message known to man, pleading for a
substitute to arrive by 9:30 this morning and take over my classroom for the
remainder of the day. Then I grab my school bag, stuff the jury summons inside
it, and clamber into my minivan with six minutes to spare before I’m officially
late for work.

Weaving in and out of traffic, I pretend I’m playing Mario
Cart Wii and get to school in less than four minutes.

The middle school parking lot is jammed with cars and I
can’t find a spot. “What the hell?” I ask the air, as if it will know why my
day is already so royally screwed.

People are heading toward the gym en masse, and I remember
that it’s a local election day. Knowing he’s still out on sick leave, I park in
the assistant principal’s space and sprint toward the building just as the
first bell rings.

I take the steps of the turn-of-the-century schoolhouse
two at a time and narrowly avoid bumping into one of the voters streaming out
of the building.

“Excuse me,” I say, wasting a half moment on pleasantries.
The woman’s perfume trails behind her, carrying the scent of hope mixed with
summer flowers. She’s dressed expensively, and her long ash-blond hair is
bohemian perfection.

“Lauren?” the woman calls.

I turn back. “Shay?” I say, surprised that this specimen
of flawlessness remembers me. We’ve only met a couple of times at PTA
functions, where Shay Greene is an officer and I am an underling underachiever
barely holding up the T in PTA.

I say the first thing that pops into my head. “So, who’d
you vote for?” My heart is hammering in my chest and I’m silently counting down
to the second bell. If I could have any super power, I’d want the ability to
beam myself instantaneously from place to place at the snap of a finger.