Lauren Takes Leave by Gerstenblatt, Julie (ebooks children's books free txt) 📕

doing, okay? Lunch on the beach at the Loews Hotel, Miami? Drinksat the Clevelander? No big mystery. Not to mention, you wouldn’t be able to useyour cell phone all week long if you were really sequestered! Now, do you mindtelling me what the fuck is going on?”

Chapter 28

My mouth is wide open and I’m really, really, reallythinking about spilling my guts and telling Doug the whole truth and nothingbut, till death do us part or whatever, when the door opens and my kids sort oftumble inside with Laney.

“Hi!” I cry out, staring into Ben’s and Becca’s round,blue eyes, both smaller versions of my own. I grab Ben and hug him to me. “Imissed you guys so much!”

“Mom!” he shouts. “You’re back!”

Becca joins the chant. “Ma! Ma!”

“You got taller,” I tell him, letting him go and measuringhim against my torso. He beams with pride. Then I pick up Becca. She smellslike sugar and Play-Doh and is even pudgier than I remember her being onWednesday.

Nothing makes me love my children more than being awayfrom them for two days.

“Ah! You are home!” Laney sighs, looking totally wipedout. Her hair has leaves in it and has been pulled out of its ponytail, into asort of rat’s-nest halo. Although there are bags under her eyes, she lookscompletely delighted to see me, and immediately begins handing off the childrenlike batons at a relay race. She props open the door with one foot, afraid thatif it closes, she might never be allowed to leave.

“Becca ate some Doritos at the park. She needs a bathtonight because she didn’t get one yesterday, and she has some paint stuck inher hair. See?” Laney points to the offending bits of blue, then inhales inorder to finish the rest of her diatribe. “Ben is hungry and ready for dinner now,and also he needs some help with his spelling because he has a test tomorrow.Becca’s teacher called and said she has been bullying some of the boys on theplayground. Bye!” She waves, grabbing her giant pocketbook, which probably hassomething of mine stuffed deep inside.

“Thank you!” I call. “Have a great weekend! See youMonday!”

This last comment stops her short. She turns around on thesteps leading to the driveway, shaking her head. “Not Monday. It’s my vacationnext week. I’ll see you the week after, remember?”

I try to rack my brain for some sort of clue, a memory ofa conversation, letting me know that I’m not hearing this information for thefirst time.

“South Beach, Miami. Remember? With my girlfriends? Forspring break?”

Oh, the irony.

Laney must have told me this, might have even asked mypermission before scheduling the trip, though she doesn’t always. But somethingabout it doesn’t feel right. How could I forget a huge issue like my babysitterleaving for a week?

As if sensing my hesitation, Laney continues. “It’s thesame time as your school vacation,” she prods. “You told me I could go.” Nowshe’s pouting, arms crossed defiantly across her chest.

This is what it’s going to be like to have teenagers, Irealize. I’m not going to like it.

“What day is today?” I ask no one. Doug has taken the kidsinto the kitchen and hasn’t even been a part of this conversation. I now stepall the way outside to address Laney. “My school vacation begins the weekafter, on the twenty-fourth. This Monday is only the seventeenth.”

“Oops!” Laney says, not seeming the least bit regretful.“See you in two weeks, then!”

Great. As I watch her disappear down the driveway with herhuge pocketbook bulging, I feel almost certain that my favorite cover-up isgoing to Florida after all.

Once the children are asleep, I find myself alone withDoug in our bedroom. I pretend to busy myself with unpacking the rest of mybag.

“So…” Doug begins. “Are you going to answer my question ornot?”

The old Lauren certainly would have given in by now. Shemight have cried, or begged for forgiveness, or apologized a thousand timesover. Although, who knows what the old Lauren would have said or done, sinceshe probably wouldn’t have taken leave in the first place, right?

The post-Miami me decides on an offensive attack, albeitin a loud whisper so as not to wake the kids down the hall. “I might ask youthe same. What the hell is going on here, Doug? What could you have possiblysaid to that police officer when you disappeared upstairs to make him think Ican get him an autographed picture of Tim and Ruby?”

“Tim and Ruby, huh?” he says, a dimple creasing his leftcheek. “Those are some familiar terms you’re using for mega superstars.”

He is really handsome, my husband. And, so far, he hasn’tyelled at me, or given me the silent treatment, or marched right out of thehouse. So far, he hasn’t done any of the things that I thought he would do.He’s surprised me. He’s been patient, even in the face of being questionedabout my alleged disappearance and possible murder.

“Lauren, it’s time,” he says, looking tired, looking sad.“You need to tell me.”

And so I do.

Well, everything but the kiss.

When your husband of twelve years listens to your story,the one in which you do not act like the good mother, teacher, daughter, orwife that you have always been, you cry. You cry because, for the first time ina long time, he’s listening.

He listens, and he hears you. And he says that he doesn’tknow how you grew so far apart so fast, and that you’re not the only one toblame. He tells you how much he missed you, not just while you were on leavebut for months and months before then. He tells you that he’s so anxious aboutwork that he doesn’t know how you are going to make ends meet. You tell himthat you recently spent a lot of money frivolously but that you’ll tutor andmake it up somehow. But you make it clear that you are keeping the shoes, thebag, and the sweater. He tells you that the Botox looks okay, but he wouldprefer you grow old naturally and gracefully with him.

You tell him that, sometimes, you can’t breathe. That lifeas his wife