Lauren Takes Leave (11 page)

“I can’t imagine you wearing anything conservative,” I
say.

“Well, the rabbi pulled me aside at Friday night services
last week and told me that my outfit can be strapless, backless,
or
short,
but not all three,” she explains. “I saw something great online that almost
meets the criteria.”

I describe the dress I’m planning on wearing, a black
sheath with silk trim at the neck, and side pockets below the slightly dropped
waist.

She nods. “Yeah, that sounds like you.” I know it’s not
meant to be an insult, but for some reason it stings.

After lunch, we prowl the different departments for a
while, but Jodi can’t seem to find what she’s looking for. Instead, she ends up
buying some new skinny jeans and a few sexy tops.

She digs around her bag as the saleswoman rings her up and
announces the total. “That will be six hundred fifty-two dollars and
seventy-five cents. Would you like to use your Neiman’s charge?”

Jodi looks around slyly as she proffers a wad of bills in
a crumpled envelope as her form of payment.

“What is that?” I ask.

“Cash back,” she says, counting twenties. As if I know
what that means.

Jodi produces more and more random wads of bills from the
depths of her purse. Some twenties are crumpled little balls, while others are
folded together into neat stacks bound by rubber bands. One or two bunches of
cash come organized in Ziploc baggies.

“What the hell, Jo?” I ask, by way of clarification.

The sales clerk seems less surprised, merely shrugging as
she takes the bills. Then, with expert precision, she turns them so they are
all facing the same way, tugs on the pile so that it’s nice and crisp again,
licks her thumb, and begins counting.

“Come into your trust fund?” I add.

“No!” Jodi says, rolling her eyes at me. “It’s like I just
told you:
cash back
.”

“You mean, you earn dollars back from Visa, or get points
on your AmEx that mysteriously turn themselves into random twenties at the
bottom of your pocketbook?”

She laughs at me and shakes her head. “I can’t
believe
I never told you about my cash-back program.”

I shift my weight to one hip and lean against the counter.
“I don’t think I would have forgotten this. Sounds even more intriguing than
your I’m-tired-of-my-Manolos exchange program.”

“It’s the funniest story, actually,” she begins. Then she
turns to the saleswoman and says, “I bet you know all about it.”

“Indeed I do,” the woman responds, a little smile playing
on her lips. “I see a lot of customers just like you.”

“See?” Jodi says triumphantly. “I thought I had invented
it, but then I started noticing other women doing the same thing.”

We wait for the saleswoman to get the right size shopping
bag from the back. I am no clearer about this than I was a few minutes ago. The
only thing I know for sure is that if Jodi thinks she invented it, it can’t be
good.

“I had this idea last year to throw a surprise party for
Lee, for his fortieth birthday,” she begins. “I didn’t want him to know about
it, but that was a problem because I didn’t actually have any
money
to
pay for the party. So, I thought: Jodi, how are you going to get money without
Lee noticing?”

This part of the story has me more than slightly worried,
but since she is smiling, I smile right back at her.

She digs through her bag for some lip gloss and starts
applying, leaving me hanging.

“
Anyway
.” She moves over to look at her reflection
in a nearby mirror. “I was standing in the checkout line at Target when the
solution came to me: cash back! You know how the bill at places like Target is
always huge? Like two hundred dollars?” She doesn’t wait for my response.
“Well, I figured I could easily tack on a little cash back and Lee would never
know! So whenever I shopped at places like that—the supermarket, Costco, Trader
Joe’s, whatever—I asked for cash back at checkout. I got forty bucks here, and
sixty bucks there, and that money, combined with what I get from Claudine,
added up pretty fast!”

She smacks her shiny lips together in satisfaction.

“Wait a minute,” I begin, trying to get my mind to catch
up with her story. “You just gave me so much to think about!”

“I know!” she agrees.

“I don’t think you do, since I’m being sarcastic. But, first
off, what money do you get from Claudine?”

“Oh, I tell Lee that I pay her four hundred dollars a week
for babysitting and housework, but I actually only pay her three hundred.” She
takes out her phone and scrolls through e-mails while talking.

“And the rest?”

“Is for me.
My
salary, for making sure that
Claudine does what she’s supposed to do, for driving carpool, for, you know,
being a mommy.”

“That is so twisted.” I laugh at the absurdity of it.

“No, it isn’t.”

“It’s wrong, Jo,” I try to emphasize. “You’re stealing
from Lee. From yourself!”

“Nu-huh!” she responds, sounding like one of my students.
“Plus, remember, I was doing this
for
Lee. To throw him a party!”

“Only, I don’t recall a fortieth birthday party for Lee,”
I counter.

“Well.” Here she pauses and puts her phone down on the
countertop. “Turns out, he didn’t want one.” We let that sit between us for a
moment. “So, suddenly I found myself with, like, a thousand dollars in cash
that Lee didn’t know about. And I couldn’t tell him, because he’d be furious.”

“Why would he be mad?” I ask pseudo-innocently. “You
weren’t
stealing
, after all. You were doing it
for him
.”

“It’s hard to explain,” she says, trying to look serious.
“You wouldn’t understand.”

“That you’re full of shit? Oh, I understand, Jo. I love
you dearly, but I know you’re completely full of shit.”

Just then, the saleswoman emerges with some shopping bags
and tissue paper in hand. As the items are wrapped, Jodi explains the rest of
her sordid tale. You see, she decided, the best thing to do with the money was
to get rid of it. By spending it. On herself. And then, she got used to having
that money and spending it on herself. So, now, almost a full year later, she
routinely asks for cash back pretty much everywhere she goes. And then she takes
that money and shops. Like right this minute, at Neiman Marcus.

“That’s stealing!” I call to her from a pile of jeans that
I’m flipping through. “Why don’t they ever have my size?”

“I prefer to think of it as embezzlement,” Jodi says
matter-of-factly. “Which I learned from an expert named Lee Moncrieff.”

See? So hard to argue with her logic.

“Not to mention, you’re involved now, too,” Jodi adds.

“Me?” I ask, looking through a pile of short-sleeved T-shirts
for a white scoop-necked Splendid in medium.

“How did we pay for lunch?” she asks, coming closer.

I stop what I’m doing to give her craziness my full
attention. “Um. You paid with a credit card and I gave you my half in cash.” As
the words leave my mouth, I realize what I’ve done. “Ohmigod! I’ve just contributed
to your cash-back program!”

Her full smile flashes its perfect white teeth at me. “See
how easy? I’m
always
the one to collect for someone’s birthday. I can
make a cool two hundred
at least
, every time one of my good friends
passes another milestone!”

“And what, you charge the gift on Lee’s credit card
instead of using all the collected cash?”

She nods. “I’m like my very own rewards program.”

“That’s intense.”

Jodi merely shrugs like it’s no big deal and saunters back
toward the register.

You think you know someone, and meanwhile, they are lying,
cheating and stealing right under your nose. The thought makes me shudder
slightly, like I did yesterday at the bus stop, as if a cool breeze just blew
through the climate-controlled mall.

While Jodi is finishing her transaction, I meander around
and try to process the amorality and simultaneous brilliance of Jodi’s cash-back
program.

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.

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.