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

“Right, Lauren?” Doug continues, as Leslie looks on,somewhat confused. “Whaddaya think? Does everyone get a second chancetonight?”

“I’m a big fan of forgiveness,” I say, looking at Doug.“You know, across the board. Like, for everybody.”

“So?” Leslie asks. “Are we good here?” She glances from meto Doug and back again. “I have no idea what the fuck you guys are talkingabout, but I’ve got to get back in there and apologize to approximatelytwenty-six other people.” She takes a crumpled list out of her décolletage andscans it for names. “Kat’s next.”

“Yeah, we’re good,” Doug says, looking at me. “As long asyou stay on the straight and narrow.”

“Oh, I will,” Leslie says, putting her bandaged palm uptoward the blackened sky. “It won’t be easy, and I’ve learned some toughlessons these past few days. But believe me, Doug, it won’t happen again.”

I nod my head in agreement and take my husband’s hands inmine. “Believe me and Leslie, Doug. It won’t happen again.”

Chapter 36

Sunday

I wake up with a serious case of the Sundays. It’s anillness that has plagued me since my first days as a student teacher more thanfifteen years ago. I thought it would remedy itself in time, or at least lessenin intensity, but it has never abated. What’s worse is that, in recent months,it has actually intensified.

If you are a teacher, you know what the Sundays are. Heck,maybe this illness even translates into different fields of employment, buthaving never been anything but a teacher, I wouldn’t know. The Sundays are, inshort, a series of small panic attacks that leave me feeling nauseated,anxious, and depressed, all at the same time, knowing that Monday is justaround the corner.

Have I graded the quizzes? Have I read the short storythat I’ve assigned to the class? Did I ever get back to the three parents whowere upset with the grades I “gave” their children (since they only “earn” As)?Sundays are like a wakeful SAT dream: I’m naked, late, and sweating, standingin front of twenty-five sets of eyeballs that won’t look away.

The only thing worse than Sunday is the entire month ofAugust, which is like one long Sunday, as I count down the lovely days leadingup to September’s arrival.

I think today may rival any other Sunday on record. Anintense feeling of fear, combined with a despondency I can almost taste, makesme groan. I pull the duvet up high over my head to block out the faint morninglight seeping through the sides of the bedroom curtains. It seems to beraining, which only adds to my gloom. Doug stirs next to me.

“Doug,” I whisper. “I think I’ve lost feeling in my toes.”

“You’re fine,” he says, rolling over.

“I’m not fine. I have some kind of stomach bug.”

“Get up and make the kids pancakes,” he mumbles.

“But that’s your job!”

“You owe me. I’m sleeping in.”

Hard to argue with that.

I place my pillow against the headboard and sit up againstit. “It’s just…I don’t want to go back to work.”

“Are we really doing this again? Now?”

“I know you think that all I did was lounge around inMiami, but there was more to it.”

“I know you did more than lounge, Lauren, believe me.”

I let that comment slide. It’s going to be a while beforewe truly get past The Kiss. Doug needs to have a chance to vent. I get that. SoI hold my tongue and try to seamlessly move on from our awkward silence.

“I’m talking about Wednesday. When I went to see Georgie.”

“So we’re really not sleeping anymore, huh?” Doug sighs,propping up his pillow next to mine.

“And what she said completely threw me.”

“Which was?” He rubs his eyes awake.

“That she’s all about the freedom to choose.”

“Choose what?” Doug asks.

“Exactly,” I say.

“I’m choosing to go to the bathroom,” Doug says, pushingaside the covers.

“And I’m choosing to let you make the pancakes, since youare so good at it.”

“Just because I’m good at it doesn’t mean I like it,” hesays over a forceful stream of pee. Now, that’s part of the problem withmarriage right there, I think. What’s wrong with closing the door? I think itwould greatly help to keep romance alive if we all just silenced the sounds ourbodies made in front of the ones we love most in this world.

But wait.

What did Doug just say?

Just because I’m good at it doesn’t mean I like it.

Could that be it? The tagline summarizing my entireeducational career thus far?

I scan my brain to try and remember what else Georgiesaid. I come up with a nugget: That it’s no wonder I needed a break fromteaching, because I take it so seriously.

What else did she tell me?

Something like, the answer would come to me if I openedmyself up to the possibility of “it,” whatever that might be, and that maybe Iam not the master of my so-called master plan.

As I put my feet into my slippers, a hint of an ideaflashes across my cerebral cortex.

I suddenly need to get Georgie on the phone.

But of course I can’t, because it’s Sunday.

Damn you again, Sunday.

I text her and hope for the best.

When the phone rings a few minutes later, my heart leapsin anticipation of the Great and Powerful Oz, but it’s not. “What time do youneed me before the funeral?” our new babysitter, Carrie, wants to know. Sheworked out so well last night that I asked her back to help out today. Thatway, Doug can attend Sonia Goldberg’s funeral with me.

“Eleven thirty,” I say.

“Can I bring some art projects over? My little sisterloves them,” Carrie says. I will myself not to love Carrie too much, because Inow believe that, like every babysitter I’ve ever had, she will eventuallydisappoint me and my children.

“Sounds like a great plan.” I pull the blanket up over thesheets to make the bed, cradling the phone under one ear.

I am about to make the kids’ beds, too, but then I stopmyself. Today may be the end of my school leave, but it’s also the start of aNew Order in the Worthing household. Today, my children will do some housework.

“Kids!” I call from the hallway landing. “Come up