Lauren Takes Leave

by Gerstenblatt, Julie

  Something shimmery catches my attention and I walk toward it, almost possessed. I grab this gorgeous Missoni sweater from the rack and see that it’s on sale, but of course it’s not the right size.

  I’ve never worn anything like it, but suddenly I must have it.

  Thoughts of Jodi’s thievery fade into the background as I talk to the saleswoman about my conundrum.

  “Let me see if I can locate that for you in another store,” she offers, taking the item from my hand and moving to the computer to start searching.

  “It’s not like you to pick that.” Jodi nods toward the top. “It’s see-through!”

  “That’s only because of the knit. It’s the whole point of Missoni stuff! You wear a tank top under it, and then it won’t be see-through anymore.”

  “Duh,” she says, like she knew this all along.

  “Excuse me, miss?” The saleslady interrupts. “I found that sweater in a size six in our Boston store. Would you like me to have it sent to your home?”

  “Um, yeah, I guess so.” I say, walking back up to the counter. She asks for my home address, which we locate in the computer.

  “It should arrive in five-to-seven business days,” she adds, ready to complete the transaction. That’s kind of a bummer. It would be nice to wear that sweater tomorrow night, to Leslie’s fortieth birthday party.

  “W-wait!” I stammer. She lifts her hand from the computer. “How much does overnight shipping cost?”

  “From Boston? Let’s see…fifty-nine dollars, plus tax.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I say, mentally erasing the sweater from my wardrobe for the time being.

  But then I think again.

  Boston.

  It’s not like Boston is all that far away. People travel there and back in a single day all the time, for business. There’s the Acela train. I could get there pretty fast.

  Georgie’s in Boston.

  And I have nothing to do tomorrow.

  Everyone thinks I’m on jury duty.

  What’s more ridiculous? Overnight shipping or a random day trip?

  I look over at Jodi, who seems perfectly content to lie to her husband, to get one over on him and do as she pleases.

  But come on, Lauren, I think. You’re no Jodi. You can’t just lie to everyone around you and have a good time while doing it. You have a conscience and morals. Besides, you feel guilt exquisitely.

  Boston. I test the sound of it in my mind.

  Jury duty.

  Take a little leave?

  Just for one day, I muse.

  Nothing big.

  I turn back to the saleswoman and smile.

  “You know what?” I ask. “Can you put the sweater on hold for a day? At the Boston store, I mean?”

  The saleswoman nods, but seems confused. I lean over the counter to whisper my plan. “I think…I think I’ll go get it myself tomorrow!”

  Just then, Jodi walks over. I worry that she’s heard me, but she’s too busy shopping to notice. “Ugh, all the clothing here is so cute! But I have to go get the girls at school, take one to tennis, one to art, and one to tae kwon do, then roast a chicken and plant some pink impatiens by the front walk before stuffing envelopes for the PTA.” She gives me a quick hug and is off. “This was fun! See you Saturday!” she calls.

  I wave in her general direction, but am distracted by my own slightly deranged thoughts, which are now moving quickly.

  Boston. Georgie. Road trip! I leave a voice-mail message to see if Georgie is free for coffee, then check the Amtrak schedule.

  Wednesday is shaping up to be quite an adventure.

  Chapter 8

  As I’m getting into my car, the phone rings. “Hello?” I ask, not recognizing the name or number on the screen.

  “Mrs. Worthing? This is Lila over at Dr. Grossman’s office. I know I told you it would be impossible to fit you in today, but I’ve just had a cancellation. Can you be here in ten minutes, at three o’clock?”

  My throat falls into my stomach. “Absolutely.”

  On the drive over, I keep checking my forehead in the rearview mirror. This makes driving a bit complicated. People honk as the traffic lights change, but my car and I don’t move. Self-obsession is a dangerous business. I don’t know how Jodi does it.

  And then, I wonder, is self-obsession what I’m really after? Isn’t it enough to just take a day trip to Boston? Now I have to go and get my face pumped full of poison, too? I mean, yes, I want to look younger. But what is the cost and what the gain?

  First thought: Doug will be mad. More than mad. He once said he would lose respect for me if I ever did any cosmetic alterations.

  I wonder if he’d remember saying that. It was kind of a while ago now.

  Anyway, isn’t it my face?

  My face, yes. But he has to look at it every morning for the rest of his life.

  Except, not tomorrow morning, because I’ll be slipping out early to travel to Boston. Ha!

  Come back down to earth, Lauren, and deal with the decision at hand.

  Okay, so Doug likes you the way you are.

  Which is, you know, sweet.

  But I could look better. Wouldn’t he like that even more?

  We haven’t seen much of each other lately. I wonder if he remembers what I really look like up close. Maybe this “tweak” of mine could fly beneath his radar?

  I could just not tell him, I think, channeling my inner Jodi.

  I didn’t tell him about the pocketbook, and that went pretty smoothly, I rationalize.

  Now that my hair is colored and cut in a new style, I could just insist that this is what’s making me look younger. Jodi almost didn’t recognize me because of my hair, after all. People don’t have to know that I look better because I froze some really small muscles on my face.

  But then I wonder, if he doesn’t notice any change, does that mean the procedure was successful? Or, isn’t the whole point of getting Botox done to have people gushing about how fabulous you look?

  See, I’m already self-obsessed, and I haven’t even had botulism injected under my skin yet.

  I enter the elevator in Dr. Grossman’s office building and hit “3.” The back wall is covered with mirrored panels, so I turn and stare at myself some more.

  I never really thought about my forehead much. If I do go through with this today, I know I’ll examine my face all the time. I’ll have to watch my forehead change, and then worry about it, and then run back to the doctor’s office to maintain the perfection of it. Maintenance is expensive, and it’s perpetual.

  As it is, I have hair color to maintain, and we all know how well I’ve done at that. And let’s not even talk about my bikini area.

  I’ve heard that if you don’t keep up with the Botox schedule, your face morphs dramatically overnight. Like, for a few months you’re all smooth and glowy like a freshly picked apple and then, boom! You wake up on the morning after the expiration date looking like an apple-head doll. Wear a cloak and people will start asking you to perform voodoo.

  Plus, there’s cost to think about. I keep some of my teaching salary for fun splurges. Would I rather have new clothes or a wrinkle-free brow?

  If I started tutoring kids after school, maybe I could afford both.

  Tutoring for Botox? Is that crazy or inspired?

  Though I’m still undecided when I reach the receptionist’s desk, I give my name and wait to hear what Dr. Grossman’s opinion will be.

  In the waiting room, I check my e-mails and see that there is a follow up from Lenny. I am expecting it to be another group message, but this one’s personal.

  So, what did you think? I’m waiting.

  My heart lurches a little. I scold myself, but I write back immediately:

  Not bad.

  I’m about to write more, but a woman in teddy bear scrubs opens the glass partition and calls, “Lauren Worthing? The doctor’s ready for you,” so I hit “send” and take a deep breath.

  As we walk the pale h
allway, I imagine meeting Lenny for drinks in the city sometime in the near future. As I swivel toward him on my bar stool, he tells me that I look as great as I did in high school. No! Even better than ever, Lauren, like you haven’t aged a day.

  In the examination room, I hop up onto the giant reclining chair and wait. “Change into this backless paper gown,” the teddy bear assistant directs. “And the doctor will be with you in a few moments.”

  “But I’m just having him look at my face,” I explain.

  “Still. We like to embarrass everyone. Please put on the gown.” As she pulls open the door to leave the room, I catch a glimpse of the next patient being taken down the hall.

  The woman is frumpy and in late middle age, with drab brown hair styled like the queen of England’s.

  Oh my God, I know a woman with hair like that. It’s Martha, my principal! She turns her head toward the nurse walking beside her, and in that moment my worst suspicions are confirmed. She’s here. I quickly close the door and duck out of sight.

  By the time Dr. Grossman comes into the room I am an emotional wreck. “I can’t do this!” I say, the tears welling up in my eyes. “It’s just crazy! It’s not who I am!” I tuck the paper gown under my butt.

  “It’s okay, Lauren,” Dr. Grossman begins, sitting down on his leather-covered stool and then wheeling over to my side. “So many women feel the way you do when beginning treatment with Botox or other fillers.” He scratches his balding head, displacing a tiny tuft of white hair, and smiles up at me. “But I think you’ll find that, while the decision-making part of the process can be difficult, the rewards will immediately make up for any conflicted feelings you are experiencing right now. In only two days, results may be visible!”

  “I’m such a liar,” I sob.

  “Lying is a strong word for the most popular cosmetic procedure in America. I prefer to view this as an aesthetic fib.”

  “It’s not just the Botox,” I try to explain. “It’s everything. I’m having some honesty issues. At home, at work, in general.”

  “Ah, I see. A midlife crisis, perhaps?” He opens my file and takes a look. “You’re thirty-nine. Sounds like you are right on schedule for yours.” He smiles wanly.

  “Let me guess. If I just get Botox, all my problems will be erased?” I joke.

  “Well, no. These lines right here will be erased.” He hands me a tissue and gently examines the crease between my eyebrows. “But the rest is much harder to smooth over. Why do you think I became a dermatologist instead of a psychiatrist?” He shrugs, moving across the room to prepare the syringe. “I wave my magic wand and miracles happen. In many cases, I can instantly make my patients happy. Not so with psychiatry.”

  “So you’re saying I should quit seeing my shrink and just come to you?”

  The intercom beeps and a voice fills the room. “Dr. Grossman, call from Columbia Presbyterian on line two.”

  He puts down the supplies and takes off his rubber gloves. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to take this. We’ve been playing phone tag all day. It’ll just be a minute.” He leaves me alone with my paper gown and some thoughts.

  I haven’t seen my psychiatrist, Dr. Joan, for about a year now. Maybe I should have gone to her office today instead of here, I consider, fighting off the nausea building in my throat. But then I remember: I always leave her office crying, and there are never any visible results. It’s an endless loop. Time’s up, come back next week and we’ll keep talking about your lame, upper-middle-class problems. For years and years and years!

  Time to try something new.

  That’s what Dr. Joan always wanted for me, after all, to break out of my rut. What would she say? You suffer from Good Girl syndrome. Don’t always worry about what other people will think of you, if they will approve of your decisions, your clothing, your actions. All those competing voices are keeping you from shaping your life your own way. Dig deep and decide what’s right for you. Then you can go out and find it.

  Dr. Grossman coughs as he re-enters the room. He crosses to the counter to get a new pair of gloves from the box, then adjusts the glasses on the bridge of his nose. “So. Are we ready to do this?” he asks, handing me a mirror and scooting to my side on his wheelie stool.

  “Indeed!” I chirp, doubts erased, looking at my face as he continues. It comes out perhaps a bit louder than necessary, making Dr. Grossman jump a little.

  “Okay, then. I’d like to start by just injecting this area between the eyebrows, called the glabellar lines. They are creating this number eleven you’ve got right there, and they tend to make one seem angry. Botox is really good at freezing these muscles and smoothing them out. You’re young, still, so this treatment might be enough. If not, as a second line of defense, I’d have you come back and I’d use a filler like Restylane to plump it up. Okay?”

  To me it sounds like blahblahblahblahblah, followed by a cash register opening, cha-ching!

  “Yup!” I gush. “Okay!” My heart is beating wildly. This decision has released so much adrenaline that I have to mentally try to slow my insides down. Deep breaths, Lauren. In and out.

  The needle advances.

  “Now, you’re going to feel a pinch. There. And another, there. And one more. And…done.”

  He hands me some gauze soaked in alcohol and tells me to hang tight for a while, holding the swab over the sight of my former elevens. “Remember, these are surface changes, Lauren. They will help, but they won’t solve what’s really bothering you. I’ve been removing those warts from your feet for thirty years.” Dr. Grossman removes his gloves and clasps his hands together. “And so I know that you know what really matters. You’ll figure it out,” he adds, opening the door and waving a good-bye.

  A mellow old sage, with all the confidence in the world that I will do right.

  Dr. Grossman is like my very own Yoda.

  I try to pay the (very expensive) bill quickly and without bumping into Martha. I locate a pair of slightly crooked sunglasses in the bottom of my handbag and put them on. Martha’s voice carries down the hall, and, just as it gets louder, she turns the corner and I pass through the wooden office door and out of sight.

  I hope there is some confusion about Martha’s insurance that significantly delays her exit.

  I consider taking the stairs to ensure a fast departure, but get sidetracked by my appearance in the elevator bank’s wavy silver doors.

  My forehead looks pretty normal, though there is some stinging at the precise points where the toxin was injected. It’s hard to tell exactly how much bruising there is, since it’s kind of dark in the hallway. When the doors open, revealing the mirrored back wall of the elevator, I press “L” and go stare at my reflection under the fluorescent light.

  A voice calls “Hold that door!” just as it’s closing. It’s Martha, goddammit! Her sensible right shoe is about to encounter the sensor. The doors will push back to let her in.

  And if that happens, I shall be screwed.

  I frantically hit the “close” button and try to push the doors shut with sheer mind strength.

  And, magically, it works.

  But not before Martha gets a good, clear look at me and I at her. “Lauren?” she whisper-asks. Her brow wrinkles in a way that mine may never do again.

  And then she’s gone.

  I collapse against one wall and cough out nervous laughter that ricochets around the empty elevator, making me sound like a mentally unstable cartoon villain. My heart slows to a gallop.

  Martha was so surprised and confused to see me out of place like this just now that she actually used my first name. Unheard of! Revolutionary!

  This cannot be good.

  I start moving as soon as the doors separate. I’m across the lobby and pushing around the revolving glass doors when I hear her behind me.

  Damn you, stupid revolving doors! You are a death trap for errant schoolteachers everywhere.

  “Mrs. Worthing?”

  Lauren, I coach myself, be invis
ible. Be deaf, blind, and invisible. And pretend to talk on the phone. Yes! Be deaf, blind, invisible and distracted, and move your ass as fast as you can across that parking lot and into the safety of your vehicle.

  I move my ass, move my ass, move my ass across the parking lot.

  Using the remote start button on my keychain, I prepare my minivan for immediate takeoff and hop inside.

  I put my foot on the gas and accelerate quickly, only to be stopped by a red-and-white-striped gate at the end of the parking lot. “Hurry, hurry!” I say, searching through my wallet for the white paper ticket and inserting it into the credit card slot. I inspect my rearview mirror, scoping for signs of Martha, feeling very much like Marty McFly when his flux capacitor isn’t fluxing. Time is running out. “C’mon…c’mon!” I pray.

  The barrier pulls up and lets me through. “Yes!” I exhale, bumping my palm against the steering wheel in a sort of high five. The victory music from Back to the Future plays in my head like my very own inspirational soundtrack. As I make a left turn, I check the rearview mirror once again. Martha’s car pulls up to the exit kiosk, just as the arm of the gate drops in front of it.

  Ha! Take that, lady! You and your moles are no match for Team Worthing.

  I’m figuring it out, Dr. Grossman.

  Really.

  At a red light, I take a deep breath, letting go of any tension from my narrow escape. I need to mentally toughen up before driving the next half mile back to my house.

  I wonder what today’s welcome-home surprise will be. No baths? Homework not done? Piano teacher pissed off? Something on fire?

  My phone vibrates, letting me know that a text has come in. It’s Georgie.

  Glad to hear from you! I’ll be in my usual place, 11:00.

  I write back quickly, before the light changes to green. It’s been a long time. C u soon.

  Looking forward to it bubbles back her response.

  Chapter 9

  My house is unnaturally still when I enter. “Ben?” I call out. “Becca? Laney?” I move cautiously into the kitchen, hoping my family hasn’t been massacred.