A voice calls “Hold that door!” just as it’s closing. It’sMartha, 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 thedoors shut with sheer mind strength.
And, magically, it works.
But not before Martha gets a good, clear look at me and Iat her. “Lauren?” she whisper-asks. Her brow wrinkles in a way that mine maynever do again.
And then she’s gone.
I collapse against one wall and cough out nervous laughterthat ricochets around the empty elevator, making me sound like a mentallyunstable cartoon villain. My heart slows to a gallop.
Martha was so surprised and confused to see me out of placelike 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 acrossthe lobby and pushing around the revolving glass doors when I hear her behindme.
Damn you, stupid revolving doors! You are a death trap forerrant schoolteachers everywhere.
“Mrs. Worthing?”
Lauren, I coach myself, be invisible. Bedeaf, blind, and invisible. And pretend to talk on the phone. Yes! Bedeaf, blind, invisible and distracted, and move your ass as fast as youcan across that parking lot and into the safety of your vehicle.
I move my ass, move my ass, move my ass across the parkinglot.
Using the remote start button on my keychain, I prepare myminivan for immediate takeoff and hop inside.
I put my foot on the gas and accelerate quickly, only tobe 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 ticketand 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 fluxcapacitor 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 victorymusic from Back to the Future plays in my head like my very owninspirational soundtrack. As I make a left turn, I check the rearview mirroronce again. Martha’s car pulls up to the exit kiosk, just as the arm of thegate drops in front of it.
Ha! Take that, lady! You and your moles are no match forTeam Worthing.
I’m figuring it out, Dr. Grossman.
Really.
At a red light, I take a deep breath, letting go of anytension from my narrow escape. I need to mentally toughen up before driving thenext half mile back to my house.
I wonder what today’s welcome-home surprise will be. Nobaths? Homework not done? Piano teacher pissed off? Something on fire?
My phone vibrates, letting me know that a text has comein. 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’sbeen 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 callout. “Becca? Laney?” I move cautiously into the kitchen, hoping my familyhasn’t been massacred.
Sometimes I get macabre.
A yellow Post-it is attached to the refrigerator, reading Goneto park 3:30.
Huh. Laney took my kids outside. For physical activity.Some vitamin D. Astonishing.
She must want something.
A raise?
Complete ownership of my ceramic straightening iron?
I riffle through the possibilities while heading back outthe front door and down the block. At the curve in the road, I take the shadydirt path through the woods, which opens onto a baseball field and playground.There, on the blacktop basketball courts, with their bicycles (their bicycles!),are my children. Laney is standing by, cheering them on. She’s not texting onher phone, listening to her iPod, or even chatting it up with anotherbabysitter in the park. She’s actually paying attention to my kids and havingfun with them.
It’s been a while since she’s done that.
Come to think of it, it’s been a while since I’ve donethat.
“Mommy!” Becca calls, seeing me emerge through the trees.“Look!”
I watch as she pushes down hard on the petals and gets thebike to move steadily forward without needing a shove from behind. “That’ssuper-duper, puppy!” I call, feeling warmth spread through me. Who knew such asmall action could inspire me to cheer so loudly? And when did Becca get sobig?
Ben gets off his bicycle and comes over sort of shyly,pulling a tennis ball from his jacket pocket. “Wall ball?” I ask.
He merely nods his head as we walk over to the racquetballwall set up on the other side of the park. Wall ball is a third-gradephenomenon. The rules seem to have been passed down through the ages, fromout-going third-grade boys to incoming third-grade boys, perhaps through somesort of formalized, recess-based ceremony that only they know about. Keepingthe traditions of this ritual alive in playgrounds and blacktops of this greatland is critical to the culture of nine-year-old males.
In September, when I asked Ben how he learned about thisgame with all its very many complicated (and sometimes contradictory) rules andregulations, he shrugged. “I just did, that’s all.” I pictured him being swornto secrecy behind the jungle gym before being handed a neon-yellow ball.
I love playing wall ball with Ben, talking about our day,laughing about nothing.
Even if he does keep changing the rules and I always lose.
“Mom, I have to tell you something,” Ben says,concentrating more than necessary on the wall and the ball.
My mom-gut clenches in automatic response, but I keep itbreezy. “Sure, pup, what is it?”
“You didn’t put my homework in my folder, and I got a zerofor the day.” He eyes me now, accusingly.
“I didn’t?” I say, emphasis on the “I,” as in “Why wouldI?”
“No,” he agrees. “You did not! And I missed recess to doit over and now I have to do a whole extra packet of work just because!” Hestifles a sob. “And it’s all your
