Lauren Takes Leave Gerstenblatt, Julie (classic literature list txt) 📖

and as the mother to these beautiful sleeping children and as theteacher to these sixth graders feels claustrophobic and stifling. You tell himthat, sometimes, you’re not sure who you are anymore because you’re onlydefined by your relationships to other people.

When your husband of twelve years tells you that he lovesyou, truly, madly, and deeply, whoever you are or think you are, but that ifyou ever pull another stunt like that he really will kill you, you kiss him.

And then you have sex with him.

Twice.

Chapter 29

Saturday

I have never been so excited to talk to my principal inmy whole life. I’ve been up since six a.m., just waiting.

“Do you think I can call her yet?” I ask Doug from myperch at the kitchen island. “Do you? Do you?” The clock reads 9:01 a.m.

“I think four coffees is about three too many,” he says,handing me the phone. “You’re shaking like a Chihuahua.”

I flip over the middle school faculty handbook, whichlists everyone’s home phone numbers. I have committed Martha’s number to memoryafter staring at it for the past few hours.

“Lauren!” she says, picking up on the first ring. Shesounds quite jolly for a Saturday morning. “I heard from that nice policefellow! You’ve been found!”

I laugh along good-naturedly before taking a deep breathand replying, “Well, to tell you the truth, Martha, I’ve never been more lost.”

We agree to meet for coffee in an hour, at a local spotcalled the Grind. “My treat. There are some things I should probably explain,”I say.

“Me, too,” she says.

The line goes dead, but I find myself still holding thephone to my ear. Did I hear her correctly?

I spend that hour driving Ben to a basketball game andtaking Becca to gymnastics.

“Mom, tie my sneakers and put some more air in my ball,”Ben demands as we head out the door. He stands in the foyer like an invalid,waiting for me to get him ready for his activity.

My body moves toward his out of some remembered,instinctive reflex. Then I pull back, willing myself not to blindly obey.

Instead, I cross my arms and give him a knowing look.

“What?” Ben asks. “Oh, right. Please,” he adds.

I shake my head. “Try again.”

“She wants you to do it yourself!” Becca explains,reveling in the fact that she can simultaneously score points with me whileupsetting her brother.

Ben gives me a long stare, which I hold, until he breaksthe trance by dropping the basketball on the wooden floor and bending down totie his laces. Next, head still down, he picks up the ball and heads out to thegarage, where we keep the air pump.

My children hop out of the car, listen to their coaches,and play nice with the other members of their teams. It seems that, as long asmy children are busy and apart from each other—and slightly afraid of me—thisday will go smoothly.

There is a silver lining to this trend of overschedulingone’s children, I’m telling you.

The Grind is dark and slightly grimy, and it has thatheady smell of freshly ground coffee beans. I inhale deeply and move past thestudents from the local college who are lining up for their morning Joe and ahomemade flaky croissant. Before I had kids, I liked to come here and gradepapers on weekend mornings. The scent of coffee would get trapped in my hair; Iwould pull it to my face and relive it for the rest of the day. Someone shouldmake a perfume that smells like the Grind, because I’d totally wear it.

It’s no surprise that Martha is punctual, arriving at teno’clock on the dot. I watch her for a moment before revealing my location inthe back of the cramped, beatnik-inspired space. She readjusts the stiff, blackpocketbook on her arm and then hesitantly touches her hairsprayed coif.

Martha is nervous.

I get her attention by standing, calling out her name andwaving, a big smile plastered on my face. I am not sure what to expect from hertoday, but an offensive attack of kindness can’t hurt.

I have already purchased us two coffees and some blueberryscones, not really caring what she’d like to eat or drink.

“Lauren!” Martha blinks at me, and I think there might betears in her eyes. We stare at each other for a moment as I wait for her nextmove. As I’ve mentioned, Martha’s age slides somewhere between fifty and ahundred and fifty, depending on the occasion and how the light hits her. (Heroldest look is under fluorescent lighting while disciplining a child; heryoungest look is at sunset while disciplining a parent at the annual schoolpicnic.) Today, perhaps because I’m seeing her completely out of context,perhaps due to the fact that she’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, she looks moreyouthful than ever before.

Martha grabs me in an awkward embrace, my torso bendingtoward her while my butt hovers over my wooden chair, hands pinned to my sides.When she lets go, I sort of fall right into my seat.

“Well!” I say. “That was a bit unexpected.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “It’s odd for me to admit, even tomyself, but it seems that I am happy to see you alive.” She smiles sadly.

“Gee, thanks.”

“The thing is…” she begins, and then, thinking better ofit, stops herself.

I am intrigued; I want to know where this is heading.“Please, continue.”

“I…I get the sense that you despise me. Don’t shake yourhead at me, Lauren, and try to deny it. I see it in your eyes, have always seenflashes of hatred there. And I just want to know why.” She rubs her handagainst her forehead, as if she’s in pain from all this thinking, and instantlyI know: Botox! That’s why she looks so much younger today, and that’s why shewas at Dr. Grossman’s on Tuesday.

The world truly is full of surprises.

Then I remind myself: Focus, Lauren. Tell her why youhate her.

And then, Why do you hate her?

If there is one thing I have learned this week, it’s tocut through the bullshit and be honest, with myself first, and then (mostly)with others, even if that means I’m not going to come out looking perfect. I’mthinking of Lenny. I’m thinking